


and you and i were fire, fire, fireworks

by trishapocalypse



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Rimming, boys having feelings through text messages aww, lonely!zayn, mentions of zayn/perrie zayn/danny and harry/nick but just MENTIONS, stupid boys being stupid and cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:49:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3499064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trishapocalypse/pseuds/trishapocalypse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>espresso yourself yeah?? I stopped by there today</i>
</p><p>
  <b>YOU WERE? what time??? maybe I saw you???</b>
</p><p>
  <i>oh it was like half-eight? had an early class and all</i>
</p><p> <b>oh ): i was hoping maybe you were there when i was… woulda been like fate, huh??</b></p><p> </p><p>(Or: the one where Zayn is drunk and lonely and Harry is a number graffiti'd on a loo stall door that Zayn texts. A lot.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	and you and i were fire, fire, fireworks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badjujuboo (miztrezboo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/gifts).



> many thanks to a & a for beta'ing this fic until they were blue in the face. and for the hand-holding and constant text messages and mental breakdowns. hope you like it. (:

Zayn was drunk, that much wasn’t a surprise, and he found himself stumbling into the bathroom at the night club to escape the loud thumping of the bass, the bright flashing lights, the bodies grinding against one another on the dance floor, and the shots that Louis kept buying for him and shoving into his hand with the declaration of _”you’re free, mate! Drink up!”_  
  
And Zayn wasn’t exactly feeling _free_ , not anymore, not when his whole body was tingling with the excessive amount of alcohol that was flowing through his veins. It wasn’t much quieter in the loo, the bass was still reverberating through the walls, and the air was sticky and hot. Zayn was torn between wanting a smoke, wanting a drink, wanting to sleep, and wanting to get laid. It was a dangerous combination, much like the fireball and vodka shots that Louis had been alternating with all evening, and Zayn splashed himself on the face with some cold water in a desperate attempt to stop seeing double.   
  
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, staring at himself in the mirror, while a couple other blokes came in, did their business, and left, but he was sure it was a while. He slowly walked over towards the wall, clumsily climbing onto the heater and reaching up to unlock the window, shoving it aside and letting in some of the cool October air. He dug his smokes out of his pocket and lit up, eyes drifting shut as he tried to steady his breathing.   
  
“Zayn! There you are!”  
  
Slowly, lethargically, Zayn turned towards the sound of Louis’ voice, blinking until he was only seeing _one_  of his best mates. “Yeah?”  
  
Louis grinned, crowding up in Zayn’s space, breath tinged with alcohol as he wrapped an arm around Zayn’s waist. He reached for Zayn’s wrist, taking a drag from his smoke, leaning out to blow the smoke out of the window. “Why are ya holed up in here, Z?”  
  
Zayn looked down at his smoke with a subtle raise of his brow, tilting his head to the side.   
  
Louis nodded, still grinning. “M’headed out, mate. That bird Eleanor is here; m’going back to her place.”  
  
With a nod, Zayn held out a fist, waiting for Louis to bump his against it.  
  
“Catch you tomorrow, yeah? Have fun out there, Z. Get drunk, get laid, you deserve it,” Louis told him, smacking his lips against Zayn’s cheek before dipping out of the loo.   
  
Zayn couldn’t even be mad at Louis—well, actually, he _could._  After all, it was Louis’ bright idea to take Zayn out for a night of drinking and celebrating after finally breaking up with Perrie (for _good_  this time), and it was Louis’ bright idea to get Zayn so drunk he was chain smoking in the bathroom and running his thumb over scribbled names and numbers and messages on the wall. Zayn hadn’t been so far gone in a while, not since he and Louis and met up with Matty, a friend of a friend of an acquaintance, who sold them the best smoke they’d ever had, where they all got fucked up in Matty’s small Manchester flat that he shared with his best mate, George. And that had been a while before, back when he and Perrie were still doing well, when she wasn’t constantly whining about where he was, why wasn’t he with her, and why didn’t they spend _time together_  anymore?    
  
Zayn wasn’t sure how long he sat in there, smoking, head in the clouds, but he was shaken out of his thoughts of Perrie and how breaking up was the only solution, _honestly_ , when a guy stumbled against the stall, nearly knocking himself out. Zayn stubbed his smoke out against the wall and looked up, catching the guy’s eyes. “Y’alright, mate?”  
  
The guy grabbed the top of the stall door, straightening himself up with a drunk and sloppy smile. “Yeah,” he said, dazed, fingertips sliding over the side of the stall, and he laughed. “Look— _call Harry for a good time—wicked tongue_.” He finished off the reading with a ramble of numbers and laughs that Zayn only half got—not that he wanted them or anything. The guy reached into his back pocket, lost his footing, and fell against the wall with a groan.  
  
Zayn’s reflexes were a bit shot, drowned with the whiskey and vodka from earlier, hazy from the smoke, or he would’ve tried to help the lad. “Mate—“  
  
“Got it,” he declared, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and pressing at the screen with a frown. “Fuck, my fingers—my fingers won’t work,” he said through a laugh.   
  
“Maybe you should get home,” Zayn suggested, carefully enunciating his words. “Want me to call you a cab?”  
  
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “M’gonna find my mate—date—person.”  
  
Zayn smiled to himself as the man kept muttering, slurring over his words as he stumbled out of the bathroom, only falling into the door once. He couldn’t make out the words that the guy said as he left, didn’t really care, and he finished his last cigarette. Before he knew it, he was walking across the loo, and fishing his mobile out of his pocket, punching in the numbers before his mind could even register what he was doing. He could blame it on the alcohol and the lingering smoke in the air, he could blame it on one too many shots and a wave of depression that he shouldn’t have felt since _he_  was the one who broke up with Perrie, not the other way around, but he was saving Harry’s number, the one with the _wicked tongue_ , in a pathetic attempt to distract himself from the loneliness and misery that had been seeping in since Perrie walked out of his flat in a fit of fury.   
  
He went to text him, he really did, but then he found himself stumbling out of the loo. And Zayn felt like the number was burning a hole in his pocket, some sort of promise that hadn’t even been made, and he ordered another shot at the bar, cheers-ing with the loud blue-eyed lad next to him, downing the shot before he could tell himself how bad of an idea it really was. And then he was falling into a cab, clapping the same blue-eyed loud-mouthed lad from earlier and, no, not Louis, a _different_  one, he told himself, and he vaguely remembered stroking his face and saying, “you’d love my mate, Lou.” And he barely remembered the loud laughter and a smack of wet lips to his cheek, telling him to get home safe.   
  
And that was when it happened—when Zayn dug his mobile out of his back pocket in the back of the cab, the full moon shining through the dirty windows, the driver not paying any attention to him apart from asking for the address to his dingy little flat, the one Perrie always made fun of and said was in desperate need of a good cleaning, the one she hated going to because the lift didn’t work, the stairs creaked, and the window in Zayn’s bedroom was broken, refusing to shut all of the way, letting in the cold winter air sometimes, but Zayn _liked_  it. Zayn liked it because it let him focus when he was painting or writing or just generally trying to distract himself from how unhappy and empty he was, the feelings that had always been there, even when he was with Perrie; underlying unhappiness that never seemed to go away, even with her bright bubblegum pink smile and pretty blue eyes, something that never went away no matter how much he smoked or how much he drank.  
  
And he texted Harry then, some random lad, because he didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want to _feel_  alone for one night. And even if this Harry did have a wicked tongue, maybe that’s exactly what he needed, just to get his mind off of Perrie and how her hands never felt right, lips always felt a bit too sticky with gloss, and how Zayn was always looking for something more. Something more like how his hands never felt right against her curves, even though she was gorgeous and stunning and Zayn genuinely _liked_  her, he never felt that sense of urgency and tension, the feeling of wanting someone so desperately it felt like it was hard to breathe, he never had _that_ , and that’s what he was searching for.   
  
_hi harry babes (: aha! found ur number..up for a good time?? aha x._  

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Zayn woke up the next morning, it was to a cold chill thanks to his broken window and the fact that he had somehow kicked his blankets off in the middle of the night. His head was spinning and he grumbled as he kicked his leg out, trying to locate the blanket, trying to pull it up with his foot and failing. He groaned before he slowly sat up, eyes still screwed shut in a pathetic attempt to block out the light and the impending hangover, and it didn’t work. Blindly, he reached for the blanket and pulled it over his head, burying his face in the pillow, and his mobile vibrated on the nightstand.  
  
Zayn didn’t even remember getting home, stumbling through his flat, but somewhere along the line, he kicked off his Docs and jeans, his shirt was on top of the dresser, but he remembered putting his pack of cigarettes down. He bypassed his phone reaching for the fags, and he forced himself to sit up against the headboard as he lit one up, thankful for the way his lungs burned at the first puff. Convinced the smoke was curing his hangover (even though it clearly was not—pancakes and a strong cup of black coffee and a long, hot shower and maybe a joint—or two—were the only answers), he reached for his mobile and thumbed it open, nearly dropping the cigarette precariously held between his fingers, freezing when he saw a slew of text messages from a number that he didn’t recognize.  
  


 

Zayn felt _sick,_  and he combatted that by smoking the rest of his pack of cigarettes, telling himself he could go out and buy more later, maybe, or he would bum some off of Louis, he wasn’t sure. It really didn’t matter how he got them, as long as he _did,_  and when he finished the pack, he crawled back under the blanket and pulled it over his head. He read through the messages again, uneasiness settling into his stomach as he remembered his name— _Harry_. And of course, _of course_  Zayn would do something so ridiculously stupid. He really couldn’t be trusted with his mobile, not alone, not with a belly full of whiskey and a mind distracted by the unhappiness he tried to pretend wasn’t consuming him. He thought about replying, something easy and evasive, something that would’ve ensured Harry never texted him back again, because why would he? It’s not like—  
  
It wasn’t like _anything_ , really. Zayn pushed that aside instantly because that wasn’t _him._  He didn’t text random numbers and essentially ask to hook up with him, Zayn didn’t… Zayn _didn’t_. He just wasn’t the type of person to go up to people he didn’t know, didn’t strike up conversation with strangers at clubs (the loud, blue-eyed boy from the night before a total exception due to whiskey and laughter and he really kind of wished he remembered his name, he seemed like the type of lad he and Louis would hang out with), and he definitely didn’t make moves on anyone. That was one part of his relationship with Perrie that she always struggled with—she had been the one making the first move, because Zayn was _shy_ , something she refused to believe because _how can you be shy when you’re so good looking, Zayn, I just don’t get it_. And Zayn never knew how to answer, because he didn’t know _why_ , he just _was_ , and he didn’t even think those two characteristics were related at bloody all.    
  
And so maybe, he thought, maybe the best course of action was to not text Harry—absolutely and resolutely not text Harry about anything at all. He wouldn’t text him an apology or an explanation. He told himself he would delete the number, delete the texts, and go about his day the same way he always had—pretending that he wasn’t lonely and miserable and in desperate need of something _else._  
  
So Zayn did the only thing he could think of, the only thing he _could_  do—he texted Louis.  
  
_mate…think I might’ve fucked up a bit…_

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You texted some lad’s number off of some loo stall door and all he said was that he wasn’t a hooker?”  
  
Zayn frowned, lips turning downward as he reached across the couch to pluck the joint from Louis’ fingers. “Fuck off, mate, didn’t tell you so you could take the piss.”  
  
Louis laughed as he slouched down on the couch a little bit more, kicking his legs out to rest on Zayn’s coffee table, knocking over a stack of his books in the process. “You know—“  
  
“Lou—watch what the fuck you’re doing, Christ,” Zayn grumbled, kicking at Louis’ leg before handing him back the joint and leaning over to pick up his books, straightening them up and setting them back on the table.  
  
“You just…texted some number? Why?” he asked.  
  
“Because I was drunk, Lou—“  
  
“Yeah, obviously,” Louis snorted, taking a hit from the joint and passing it back to Zayn. “What I _mean_  is, that’s not a very…Zayn thing to do.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Zayn shrugged, taking a long drag and resting his head back against the couch, releasing the smoke from his lungs slowly, “you kind of abandoned me when I was drunk as shit, left to my own devices and all that—what else was I supposed to do?”  
  
“What did it say?” Louis asked, ignoring Zayn’s whining.  
  
Zayn frowned. “What did what say? I showed you the texts.”  
  
Louis rolled his eyes. “No, the loo door.”  
  
“His name and number, what the fuck else do you think it said?” Zayn snapped. “Hey—“  
  
“Shut up, Z,” Louis said with a laugh, cutting him off by taking the joint from his hand, finishing it off and stubbing it in the ashtray, blowing the smoke out of the side of his mouth. “I know you. You’re not going to randomly text some bloke because his number is on the door, so give it up,” he insisted, fixing Zayn with narrowed and determined eyes and a half-smile.   
  
“Lou—“  
  
“Especially since it’s some _guy_ ,” Louis interjected again. “Like, you know I don’t care, it’s just weird, innit? Thought you tried with Danny—“  
  
“That was different,” Zayn said, shaking his head. “Danny and I—It was just—just lads, yeah? Like, it wasn’t a _relationship_. We were teenagers just messing about, trying to see what felt good, yeah?”  
  
Louis paused. “Do you _want_  to be in a relationship with his lad? What was his name again?”  
  
“Harry,” he mumbled, “and no—I don’t know him, okay? I was drunk and lonely, and it seemed like a good idea,” he told him with a wave of his hand, trying to play it off even though Zayn knew there was something different, he just _knew_.  
  
“Zayn,” Louis started, crossing his legs and turning his head so he could actually look at his best mate, “I’ve known you for years. It took you three months to get Perrie’s number, even though it was glaringly obvious that she wanted your dick, and you text some random lad asking him for a good time?”  
  
“I didn’t ask—“  
  
“You asked if he was up for a good time,” Louis interrupted loudly with a laugh. “So out with it—what did the loo door say? Good with his hands? His mouth? His—“  
  
“Tongue,” Zayn snapped, feeling his cheeks head up just a little bit, felt the tips of his ears going pink, and he had half a mind to bury his face in his hands but he knew that would only egg Louis on—something that he did _not_  want to do, because Louis was sort of deranged and dangerous when left to his own devices. “Are you happy now?”  
  
Louis cackled, wiping at his eyes, and he ignored the glare that Zayn sent him in favor of reaching towards the coffee table for another joint. “I love your life, Zaynie. What were you thinking?”  
  
Zayn frowned because normally he didn’t care if Louis laughed at him, because Louis laughed at everyone and everything, but this—this felt different. It _was_  different, Zayn knew that, because it wasn’t something he normally did, but—it was _different_. “I was thinking I was sick to death of feeling lonely, Louis,” he whispered. “Alright? So can you please, like…just not?”  
  
“Zayn—“  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Zayn grumbled, standing up from the couch and stretching. He cracked his back and rubbed at the back of his neck, gesturing towards the table. “You can…stay if you want, I guess, m’just gonna go to sleep.”  
  
“Zayn, c’mon, I didn’t mean—“  
  
“I know,” he said, aggravated and hung over and just _tired_. “I just want to sleep this hangover off, yeah?”  
  
Louis paused and sat up, pulling his legs back from the table. “I—Yeah,” he nodded slowly, because Zayn was moody and dismissive sometimes, but he didn’t mean to actually upset him. “Yeah, get some rest.”  
  
Zayn nodded and he turned away from his best mate, retreating back to his room; part of him kind of hoped Louis would just take the hint and leave, realizing that Zayn just felt like being _alone_  for a little bit. And Zayn didn’t blame Louis, knew it was just his personality for being in someone’s face and abrupt to the point of annoying, knew he wasn’t trying to upset him, but—fuck. Zayn knew how out of character it was for him to text someone and—it was embarrassing, really, and Louis had only made him feel worse about the situation, not better.  
  
  
(But that didn’t really explain why the first thing that came to Zayn’s mind when he crawled under his blanket was to text Harry and apologize. Because, really, he had meant to delete the messages and forget about it, forget all about Harry and his stupidly endearing text messages, and forget everything. But he couldn’t, and he didn’t know why. So he rationalized it the only way he could—that there was obviously still some alcohol in his system, mixing with the weed, and that—that was why he pulled out his mobile and texted Harry again for the second time in eighteen hours.)  
  
_not sure who grimmy is but it wsn't him .. sorry to bother u mate! was just drunk and stupid last night aha .x_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**it's okay...you're sure it wasn't grimmy?? not one of his mates being a total arse?? x**  
  
_positive .. no idea who grimmy is or why he w_ _ld put ur number on a loo stall door so...x_  
  
**loo stall door???**  
  
_yea...  
  
_ **oh my god...how will i explain this to my mum?? x**  
  
_aha mate i wldn't tell her if i were u...not smthin mums like to hear!_  
  
**probably for the best...what colorful language did my admirer use that has led to so many lads texting me asking for blowies?? x  
  
  
  
** Zayn snorted as he read Harry’s text, reaching underneath himself to tug his duvet up and over his head. His room was still cold, the window still broken even after all of the time Zayn told himself he would tell the landlord to fix it, he always forgot. He snuggled up closer to his pillow, pulling it underneath his chest as he re-read Harry’s message, typing back a response before he could stop himself.  
  
  
  
_wicked tongue_  
  
** well at least they weren't wrong...  
  
maybe i should start charging and make some extra cash haha  
  
that was a joke x  
  
  
  
** Pity, Zayn thought to himself, amused as he saw Harry start to type out another message and stop. He wondered what he could’ve been typing and what made him stop, but then again, Zayn was wondering _a lot_  of things about Harry. Mostly how his number came to be on the wall at that dingy little bar, who he must’ve pissed off at some point for them to put such a message where everyone could see it. And, of course, _who_  he was, where he was from, what he looked like—maybe they went to the same uni, the same coffee shop, the same bookstore; maybe he had seen Harry somewhere before, run into him at the shops, in line at Tesco, or at the little diner a couple of blocks away that made the best cheese toasty Zayn had ever had—apart from his mum’s, of course.  
  
  
  
**it rly was a joke...i'm a broke uni kid but m'not going to turn tricks...even though my coffee habit would probably appreciate it ha x**  
  
_aha! mate i feel the same way about my ciggs  
  
  
  
_ Zayn figured that was probably a safe answer, or the safest that he could give, because he knew nothing about Harry and he didn’t want to come off too strong. Though, well, Perrie often told him that he didn’t come across strong _enough_  half of the time, that he needed to _show_  her that he cared, that he was still interested, that he was still invested. And Zayn always thought that was a bunch of shit, honestly, because they had been together, but that hadn’t been enough.   
  
And maybe, just maybe, it was the aftermath of being teased through primary school for years that really got to Zayn. He knew he was attractive enough, maybe he didn’t believe Louis when he complimented his jawline or his cheekbones or his eyelashes as often as he did, but he was _decent._  But after being teased for years about his background, his Pakistani father, his religion, his intelligence, his love of comics—his _whatever,_  Zayn had found it more than a little difficult to bounce back and be comfortable with who he was. And, because of that, he had always retreated into himself a little, more introverted than he had planned, sticking to himself and his comics, out of fear or insecurity—he wasn’t sure which but, either way, he kept himself secluded because he didn’t want to get hurt.  
  
And that—that was why he broke up with Perrie before she could break up with him. Because she wanted more than what he could give her, what he _wanted_  to give her. And Zayn always thought he was be a good boyfriend, always thought he would be able to step up to the plate and be the doting and affectionate man that he had always seen his baba be for his mum. And maybe if Perrie had been the right girl, the right _person_ , it would’ve been easier, but it wasn’t. And he couldn’t blame himself for that, not really, but that didn’t stop a part of him from trying.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“So that was when—“ Louis groaned when Zayn’s mobile beeped again, indicating another message, the fourth one in the last two minutes. “Sorry, mate, am I boring you?”  
  
Zayn bit his lip and shrugged, reaching for his mobile that was sat on the table in front of him and going to shove it into his pocket. “Sorry, Lou, you’re not—promise.”  
  
Louis narrowed his eyes, watching as Zayn fiddled with his mobile for a minute before he reached across the table and swiped it from his hands, ignoring Zayn’s shriek. “Who the bloody hell—“  
  
“Louis, _stop!_ Give it back—“ Zayn demanded, reaching across the table and slapping at Louis’ hands. “You don’t—“  
  
“Oh, it’s Harry,” Louis grinned delightedly, tapping at the screen.  
  
“—even know my password—“  
  
Louis rolled his eyes. “It’s your mum’s date of birth, Zayn, please—I’m not stupid,” he told him, leaning back in his seat but not before slapping at Zayn’s arm. “Stop hitting me.”  
  
“Give me my mobile!”  
  
“Got something to hide, do you?” he asked with a laugh, reading through the messages. “Harry’s waiting in line for a coffee, and the line is really long. How absolutely riveting,” he read off, eyes flicking up towards Zayn and he raised his eyebrows. “That is the text message that you wanted to hide from me?”  
  
“I wasn’t _hiding_  it,” Zayn insisted. “Can I have my mobile please?  
  
“Not a chance; he’s typing a reply,” Louis told him. “I’ll read it to you when he sends it, don’t worry. Now, what else have you and this Harry been talking about?” he mused to himself, scrolling through the messages. “You lot are boring.”  
  
“Sorry our conversation isn’t up to your standards,” Zayn grumbled. “Can I have my mobile now, please?”  
  
“Oh, look,” Louis grinned, “he just got a coffee and the number of the girl who made it. He says it’s a shame because she’s cute but he isn’t into girls.”  
  
Zayn frowned. “Louis—“  
  
“I think it’s pretty obvious that he’s flirting with you, mate,” he told him, tossing the phone back towards Zayn.  
  
“He is not,” Zayn muttered, typing out a quick reply about how the world needed more attractive male baristas—or maybe just London did. It still caught Zayn off guard, how much he looked forward to texting Harry, sending him multiple texts a day which he didn’t even do with Louis, his best mate of almost three years. “Besides, I think he has a boyfriend.”  
  
“You _think_?” Louis asked. “What do you know about him?”  
  
He shrugged.  
  
“His name? His age? Where he goes to school? _If_  he goes to school? What he looks like? If he’s an insane criminal mass murderer?” Louis rattled off, ticking off each suggestion on his fingers before throwing his hands up in frustration when Zayn just shrugged again. “You’re not even curious?”  
  
“I am,” Zayn admitted quietly. “But it’s been, like, a week, yeah? We’re just…talking. I’m sure it won’t last forever, yeah?”  
  
“Hmm,” Louis nodded slowly with pursed lips. “Do you want this to last?”  
  
Zayn shrugged again. “Don’t know,” he told him. “I like talking to him.”  
  
“Right,” Louis said, leaning back in his seat. “That’s…interesting.”  
  
“How’s Eleanor? Still ignoring you after you went home with her last weekend?” Zayn asked.  
  
Louis laughed, picking up his wadded-up napkin and throwing it at Zayn across the table. “You’re a wanker.”  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
**tell me a secret… xx**  
  
_i listen to nicki minaj??_  
  
**noooo like a real secret zayn!**  
  
**(everyone listens to nicki minaj)  
  
**  
  
Zayn frowned as he watched the little bubble pop up, indicating that Harry was typing a reply, and then it disappeared—popping up again only to disappear once more. And Zayn should’ve been studying, that’s why he was in the library on a Saturday night at half-eleven—he had a paper due and he needed to focus; if he had stayed in his flat, he would’ve ended up leaning halfway out the window, chain-smoking until he ran out of fags and had to run to the little corner shop to get more. Or, well, he would’ve lain in bed and stared at his mobile until Harry texted him—not that he would’ve been waiting long because Harry seemed to text him all the time.  
  
And he wasn’t complaining, because he found himself wanting to text Harry more and more often, all of the time, actually, anytime anything happened. And that led to, of course, Louis taking the piss more than normal. But Zayn kind of expected that, which was why he tried to not bring up Harry whenever Louis was around, but it was _hard._  Because—  
  
Well, because Zayn had never really had a _crush_  before. Sure, there was Danny, back when they were both thirteen and fourteen and experimenting, when Zayn had kissed a girl for the first time and didn’t know if he did it right. And of course there was Perrie but—outside of the two of them, Zayn had never really had _crushes_. The girls and boys that he had gone home with between Danny and Perrie, between classes and jobs and the headaches and the sinking feeling of not being _good enough_  for more than one night, like—there were _people_.  
  
But then there was _Harry_ , and Zayn barely knew him. Except for the part of his brain that was screaming no, he knew him _v_ _ery_  well, because it had been three weeks of Harry and Zayn texting almost every day, learning about each other bit by bit. And it had been three weeks of Zayn falling deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole, unable to crawl his way back to the top, not when Harry was texting him close to midnight on a Saturday, probably drunk, and asking Zayn to tell him his secrets.  
  
How could Zayn refuse him?  
  
  
  
_bc she’s great! aha umm I rly like comics??_  
  
**why do you say that like it’s a question? xx**  
  
_bc idk if that’s what u want to hear_  
  
**if it’s about you, i want to hear it, zayn xx**  
  
  
  
Zayn swallowed and locked his mobile, stuffing it under one of his books in a pathetic attempt to distract himself. He was only halfway through his twelve-page term paper and he needed to _focus_. But, of course, his curiosity got the better of him within five minutes, after hearing his mobile vibrate no more than three times, and he gave in—he shoved his notebook aside and reached for his mobile, thumbing it open.  
  
  
  
**sorry if that was too much… xx**  
  
**but it’s true!!!**  


**sry I’m a bit drunk I’ll leave you alone**  
  
_no it’s okay. sorry I’m working on a paper… u don’t have to leave me alone .x_  
  
  
  
Zayn tried not to watch his mobile after that, didn’t want to be that person who was just waiting for a reply, but that bloody little bubble popped up multiple times before Zayn forced himself out of his stupor, locking his mobile and tossing it into the bottom of his bag where he wouldn’t be tempted to look at it every thirty seconds. And it actually worked, it actually got his mind off of Harry, and he was able to plow his way through the rest of his paper, stumbling out of the library at half-two, fingers itching for a smoke but he reached for his mobile instead, frowning when he saw he had no messages waiting.  
  
And that wasn’t like Harry. Or, well, maybe it was—Zayn didn’t really know him all that well, not really, so maybe that was actually. Either way, Zayn tried not to think about it, tried not to dwell on it. And when he climbed into bed half an hour later, ignoring the onslaught of drunk messages he was getting from Louis, detailing his chase of Eleanor and how he met a lovely Irish lad named Niall who could match him drink for drink. And he tried not to think about it as he drifted off to sleep with his mobile in hand, just in case.  
  
And if, the next morning (afternoon), when Zayn finally woke up and came to, adjusting to the bright sunlight through squinted eyes, if the first thing he did was check his mobile to see if he had any messages from Harry, well, no one had to know.  
  
  
  
**are you in the library?? I can keep you company xx**  
  
**sorry that was probably weird…**  
  
**grimmy thinks you’re broody. are you??**  
  
**godddd zaynnnn m’drunk hope ur paper is good sleep well lovexxx**  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Zayn didn’t text Harry back after that, and he tried to tell himself that it wasn’t because he was panicking. Except for the fact that, well, he was totally _panicking_. Because that was the first time Harry had mentioned meeting him or anything of the sort, the first time that Harry had taken that step, and all Zayn could do was turn off his mobile and pretend that he didn’t read that message. Because had he seen it last night, he probably would’ve taken Harry up on the offer, and he didn’t know how to deal with that.  
  
So Zayn did what he did best—he ignored it pushed it aside, and tried not to dwell on the fact that Harry, in his drunken state, had wanted to meet up with him. And he had heard the whole adage about drunk words being sober thoughts or whatever drivel Louis decided to spout, and he couldn’t help but wonder how true that _was_ , because Zayn had been the one on Harry’s mind when he probably couldn’t even think—or see—straight. And that did something funny to Zayn’s gut, something unexplainable.  
  
And he should’ve guessed that he was acting differently, but he didn’t truly realize it until Louis pointed it out later at supper, where he had conned Zayn into joining him and Eleanor for a drink and meeting his new mate, Niall, down the road from the pub where he had found Harry’s name and number carved into a loo stall door.  
  
“Stop mopin’ about, you piece of dick,” Louis said, reaching across the table and slapping Zayn’s cheek.  
  
“M’not moping,” Zayn grumbled, slapping Louis’ hand away, frowning.  
  
Louis rolled his eyes. “Stop _brooding_  then, whatever.”  
  
“Why does everyone think I’m broody?”  
  
“Who else besides me thinks you’re broody?” Louis asked.  
  
“He kind of is a little broody,” Eleanor added, a soft smile on her face reassuring Zayn that she was only teasing—for the most part.  
  
“I don’t think you’re broody, Zayn,” Niall cut in. “Maybe that’s how the simple folk define mysterious,” he told him with a wide grin.  
  
Zayn’s cheeks heated up a little at the half-compliment and he looked down at his hands where he was fiddling with his mobile.  
  
“Please, Zayn here is as mysterious as the bloody sun,” Louis said.  
  
“What does that even mean?” Eleanor asked with a laugh.  
  
Louis opened his mouth and then he hesitated, shrugging. “No idea, love. It sounded good though, yeah?”  
  
“No,” she told him, shaking her head and smiling, “sounded like a bunch of shit.”  
  
“The lady’s right,” Niall agreed. “Besides, he’s not hurting anyone, leave him be. Next round's on me!”  
  
“That is something I’ll drink to,” Louis said, finishing his pint before shoving his glass at Niall. “Get a move on, lad!”  
  
Niall rolled his eyes as he stood up. “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he said.  
  
“I’ll go with you,” Eleanor said, standing up and smoothing down the back of her skirt. “We’ll be back.”  
  
Louis grinned, squeezing Eleanor’s hand as she walked away, and then he turned back towards Zayn; his face changed entirely then, a complete one-eighty, as he narrowed his blue eyes and swiped the mobile out of Zayn’s hand without even blinking.  
  
Zayn sighed, rolling his eyes and saying nothing because there was no point where Louis was concerned. “Yes, Louis, please—by all means, go through my mobile—“  
  
“Yes, Zayn, that’s exactly what I was doing,” Louis told him with a sneer. “You’re so observant. Now, let’s see what Harry said to get your knickers in a twist—“  
  
“They’re not—“  
  
“Aha!” Louis exclaimed, angling the mobile towards Zayn with a frown. “You didn’t even respond? He wanted to meet you!”  
  
“He was drunk,” Zayn protested.  
  
Louis stared at him. “He was drunk, probably didn’t even know his own name, and he wanted to _meet_  you,” he pointed out. “You haven’t even texted him all day. He probably thinks you’re creeped out.”  
  
“I’m not creeped out,” he told him, reaching for his mobile only to have Louis jerk his hand back.  
  
“You’re apologizing to him,” Louis decided, thumbs tapping away at the screen. “You should also invite him here—“  
  
“Louis, don’t you fucking dare; I swear to God, I’ll shave your hair off while you bloody sleep,” Zayn snapped, slapping at Louis’ wrist and swiping his mobile back while Louis sat there in a state of shock. Zayn quickly thumbed through the message, seeing that Louis had already sent one, but hadn’t actually sent the one inviting Harry to join them. He deleted that quickly, figuring the apology could’ve been a lot more…un-Zayn-like (although the three x’s at the end were a bit much).  
  
  
  
_aha sorry mate! been out with my best mate lou… hope ur not too hungover! xxx_  
  
  
  
“Alright, alright,” Louis conceded, slouching back in his seat. “You don’t have to get violent.”  
  
Zayn frowned. “I just—I’m not ready for that yet,” he admitted.  
  
“You’re not _ready_  yet?” Louis asked with a scoff.  
  
“Who’s not ready for what?” Niall asked, setting a pint down in front of Zayn before sliding back into the booth next to him.  
  
“Zaynie here isn’t ready to meet the lad that he’s been texting nonstop for almost a month,” Louis offered. “Tell him he’s being an idiot.”  
  
“If he’s not ready, Lou, he’s not ready,” Eleanor told him easily, lifting a shoulder in a careless shrug.  
  
“You’re supposed to be on my side, El,” Louis grumbled.  
  
Zayn rolled his eyes. “She can be on whoever’s side that she wants—especially if it’s mine.”  
  
“I have no idea what’s going on,” Niall admitted.  
  
“It’s nothing—“  
  
“Zayn here got drunk a month ago, texted some lad’s number that he found on a loo stall door wanting sex, the guy politely declined him, and they’ve been talking every day ever since,” Louis summarized, looking at Zayn. “That’s about what happened, right?”  
  
“I didn’t _want_  sex, Lou,” Zayn mumbled, more than a little embarrassed. He shuffled a little further down in his seat, trying to hide himself, hoping that everyone would stop looking at him.  
  
“I find it hard to believe that you have to _look_  for someone to have sex with you,” Niall told him with an easy smile.  
  
Zayn’s stomach flipped, but not in the same with it did for Harry, and he didn’t know if Niall was flirting with him or just being friendly—he was never good at picking up on that sort of thing. “It wasn’t like that,” he insisted. “Louis ditched me to go home with Eleanor, and I was spectacularly drunk. It seemed…like a good idea at the time.”  
  
Niall shrugged. “No judgment,” he said easily. “So what’s he like? Have you met him yet?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Niall frowned. “Why not? He’s clearly interested or he wouldn’t be texting you every day.”  
  
“And you wouldn’t be texting him if you weren’t interested,” Louis added. “It took almost a month before this lad would text me on his own when we became friends. And he’s texting _Harry_  about silly things like coffee and Nicki Minaj.”  
  
“Nicki Minaj isn’t silly,” Zayn countered.  
  
“So you don’t know him? Or what he looks like? How do you know he isn’t, like, some middle-aged man with a wife and three kids with a bald spot?” Niall asked.  
  
Zayn paused. “He—He said he goes to our uni,” he offered lamely. “He always goes to that little coffee shop off of campus, the one that looks decrepit.”  
  
“Espresso Yourself?” Niall offered with a laugh and a look in his eyes that Zayn couldn’t place—not that he was trying to. “My mate _loves_  that place—goes there all of the time.”  
  
“You should go there,” Louis suggested with a smile. “See if you find anyone who looks like he could be your Harry.”  
  
“He’s not _my_  Harry,” he argued, jumping a little when he felt his mobile vibrate in his hand. He tried to hide it, disguise it, but Louis was a sneaky little bastard and could somehow _sense_ < Zayn’s distress, because his smile widened.  
  
“Aren’t you going to read your boyfriend’s text?” he asked.  
  
Eleanor slapped Louis’ arm and frowned. “Be nice.”  
  
“Yeah, be nice,” Zayn echoed before thumbing open the screen to read Harry’s message.  
  
  
  
**good…thought you might’ve been mad or weirded out?? sorry if I went too far… not too hungover…xx**  
  
**also what did I do to deserve three kisses?? (: xxxx**  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
It was two weeks later when Harry initiated another heart-to-heart. And it wasn’t as if their conversations had been dull or lifeless—Zayn had just been careful to not divulge _too_  much for his own self-preservation. The past two weeks had been full of slightly stilted conversation on his end, feeling a little uncomfortable with the way the messages were turning out. It wasn’t as if Harry was being uncharacteristically…Harry, but something felt different since the night in the library, when Harry had asked to come keep him company. Maybe it was all in Zayn’s head, and he told himself it probably _was_ , but Harry seemed to have taken that as an opportunity to be even more open with Zayn.  
  
Not that he was complaining—he wasn’t, not at all, absolutely was _not_  complaining about the way Harry would keep him up until the wee hours of the morning (not that Zayn was really trying to sleep through the night anyway, not with finals coming up, not with the amount of papers he had to write if he wanted to stay at the top of the class) talking about anything and everything, even when Zayn didn’t reply. Though it wasn’t like Zayn was ignoring him, he just generally had trouble trying to figure out what to say, especially when he wasn’t sure if Harry wanted to be comforted or not.  
  
But whenever Harry got into one of those moods, where he wanted to learn everything that he could about Zayn, it was…it was hard for Zayn to say no.  
  
  
  
**why did your last relationship end? xx**  
  
  
  
Zayn stared down at his mobile, eyes shifting from the message to the time that read _2:43_  at the top of the screen. He had two novels propped open in front of him next to his laptop, a jumble of words on the screen, something about alliteration and metaphor about coming-of-age novels and the art of self-insertion by modern writers, and his paper didn’t seem as important. He told himself he still had a week to finish it, that maybe Harry’s drunken texts were a little bit more important than some silly paper he could write half-asleep and half-stoned in less than half an hour.  
  
  
  
_we wanted different things…isn’t that always the way??_  
  
**what kind of different things?**  
  
_i couldn’t be as serious as she wanted… it just never felt right. you??_  
  
**i’ve never rly had a serious relationship…s’pose grimmy doesn’t count.**  
  
_are you and grimmy…together??_  
  
  
  
Zayn sucked in a deep breath as he watched Harry type out a reply, then stop—start and stop again—and it felt like an eternity until he finally sent a reply. And Zayn didn’t know what he was expecting; part of him wanted Harry to say no, that they weren’t, so that the crush he had been developing for the past two months was justified. But, another part of him wanted Harry to say yes, so that Zayn could work on getting over it, getting over _him_ , getting over someone he had never met.  
  
  
  
**not exactly…more of a friends with benefits thing?? grimmy isn’t exactly one for relationships. especially not with me.**  
  
_not with you??_  
  
**i’m too young or too eager or whatever his excuse is this week… tbh i don’t think i wld want to date him anyway**  
  
_too young?? how old is he? aha_  
  
**twenty-seven. you’d think he’d be the one ready for a relationship and me on the fence, but it’s the other way around…**  
  
_u about that??_  
  
**relationships?**  
  
_yea_  
  
**definitely! like, as long as it’s with the right person. i’m kind of a hopeless romantic, true love and soulmates and all of that. think it’s proper romantic. don’t you?**  
  
_not rly sure tbh aha been told m’a shite boyf honestly…_  
  
**well that’s just absurd. i think you’d be a wonderful boyfriend!**  
  
  
  
Zayn frowned at his mobile, though he wasn’t sure why. It might’ve been the implication that Harry—that _someone_ —actually believed in him. It might’ve been because Perrie had told him multiple times that he was a shit boyfriend—he didn’t remember any of their anniversaries (month-aversaries, whatever) or her favorite color or when she was going out with the girls. He had always been too involved in his own head, Louis reminded him of that all the time, and he could never focus on her.   
  
  
  
_why do u say that?? some ppl just aren’t good partners…_  
  
**they are if they want to be with someone i think…besides it’s all about communication and you’re ace at listening to me. it’s half-three and you haven’t told me to shut up once (: x**  
  
_wld never tell u to shut up hazza. I like listening to you_  
  
  
  
Zayn swallowed as he waited for Harry to reply, his throat feeling a bit tight, and he couldn’t believe that he and Harry had been texting nonstop for over an hour. Although, that wasn’t exactly uncharacteristic—Harry was a chatty drunk. (Even if Zayn didn’t want to admit that a part of him didn’t think Harry was drunk… His spelling and grammar were on point, for the most part, and he wasn’t going off on any Harry-tangents, so.)  
  
  
  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
  
“Would you turn your bloody mobile on silent?” Louis grumbled as he pressed the buttons on the controller, Zayn’s mobile beeping again.  
  
“Don’t see why it bothers you so much when El and Niall are blowin’ up your mobile all the time,” Zayn commented, kicking at Louis’ back as he laid back down on the couch, joint in hand.  
  
“That’s because I’m screwing El and drinking with Niall. You’re doing nothing with Harry,” Louis pointed out, shoving his elbow back against Zayn’s knee. “And stop kicking me, ya wanker.”  
  
“Stop bitchin’ then,” Zayn told him, reaching for his mobile off of the table and taking a long drag from his joint.  
  
“Make a move on him then,” Louis told him, mocking. “It’s been, like, two months, mate.”  
  
Zayn rolled his eyes. “Lou—“  
  
Louis made some sort of noise, cutting Zayn off. “M’just sayin, maybe it’s time? He’s mentioned meeting up with you, like, four times—“  
  
“Once—“  
  
“He’s hinted about it at least, like, four times—“  
  
“Maybe you should stop reading my bloody mobile,” Zayn told him. “Invasion of privacy and all.”  
  
Louis rolled his eyes. “No such thing when I’m your best mate.”  
  
Zayn huffed out a laugh because, fuck, wasn’t that the _truth?_  He thumbed open the screen, knowing he had at least five texts from Harry from the last few minutes, and he refused to acknowledge that the highlight of his Saturday night was drunk texts from the boy he was crushing on yet had never met. _Whatever._  
  
  
  
**hiiiii zaynie!!! what are u up to??? xx**  
  
**you’re sat at home brooding aren’t you? xx haha**  
  
**you should come over.**  
  
**to niall’s party i mean…he’s always having some sort of frat party…it could be fun if you wanted to meet up??**  
  
**that was stupid, forget I said it?? maybe ur just not readyy for that yet… sorry xx**  
  
  
  
Zayn read the messages over and over again, feeling his heart racing in his chest at the thought of Harry wanting to meet up with him. And— “Wait a minute,” Zayn mused. “Louis, is Niall in a frat?”  
  
Louis paused the game and turned over his shoulder to face Zayn, a bored look on his face. “You’ve hung out with him how many times, Z? And you don’t remember that he’s in a frat?”  
  
“No, I just— I think he knows Harry,” Zayn told him, sitting up slowly and looking away from his mobile to catch Louis’ eye. “Is Niall having a party tonight?”  
  
Louis’ eyes widened and he stood up quickly. “Fuck, how did I forget? C’mon, we have to go—“  
  
“No.”  
  
Louis frowned. “What?”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“Zayn,” Louis sighed, rolling his eyes. “You have to meet him at some point—“  
  
“I don’t—“  
  
“You _do_ ,” Louis insisted. “And this is the perfect chance. You can go to the party, scope it out, see if you can sneakily figure out who Harry is, and go from there. If he’s crazy or ugly or whatever, you can dip out, and he’ll never have to know you were there,” he suggested.  
  
Zayn swallowed, shaking his head slowly. “No."  
  
“Zayn—“  
  
“I mean, it’s a good idea, Lou, in theory, but,” Zayn shrugged, running his fingers through his hair. “I just can’t.”  
  
Louis sighed. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Z—“  
  
“Nothing would be a good start,” he mumbled, “for _once._ ”  
  
“—but I’m going to go to this party, and I’m going to scope Harry out for you, yeah?”  
  
Zayn shook his head slowly, lips pursed. “And nothing I can say is going to change your mind?”  
  
Louis grinned. “Nope,” he agreed, smacking his lips to Zayn’s forehead before picking up his jacket and heading towards the door. “I’ll report back later.”  
  
Zayn glared at the door as Louis slipped out, tapping his mobile impatiently against his thigh. He waited a solid three to five minutes before he thumbed the screen open again, re-reading Harry’s message, before tapping out a reply. He almost hated himself for using a pet name, but it came so easily where Harry was involved, just like everything else; and he blamed it on Harry clearly being intoxicated that he was able to open up, just a little bit, because he normally wouldn’t otherwise.  
  
  
  
_don’t b sorry, babes…what if m’not what u expect??_  
  
**what?? are u like a fifty year old man?? or do u like have a wife and kids u aren't telling me about?? haha  
  
****i say haha but it's not funny. pls don't be either of those bc i rly like you  
  
  
  
** Zayn’s jaw dropped as he read Harry’s reply, and he didn’t know what to _say_  or what to _do_. Maybe he had suspected it from the endless texting, but he also didn’t like to assume anything. But now, with Harry saying it so plainly, Zayn couldn’t even use the whole drunk excuse because, fuck, that’s when people were more honest, right?  
  
  
  
**unless u don't like me too and then i take it back bc i like being your friend too.**  
  
_m'not fifty aha and no wife or kids either! thank god aha  
  
_**then what is it??**  
  
_like...what if i'm not what u expect...physically??  
  
_**u think you're ugly??  
**_  
no, like...i'm worried u won't find me attractive, i guess??  
  
like idk i've heard i'm not hideous but everyone's different?? an i like u too...  
  
  
  
_ Zayn locked his mobile after sending that message and forced himself to stand up and try to get his mind off of waiting for Harry’s reply. He shoved his mobile into his pocket and smoked three cigarettes before meandering back into his room. He shut the door and pushed open the window, the one that never really shut all of the way, and sat on the windowsill, enjoying the crisp nearly winter air.   
  
When he finally checked his mobile, it nearly slipped out of his fingers and out of the fifth-story window, where it would’ve inevitably shattered against the ground—but it didn’t, thankfully. Zayn sucked in a deep breath as he looked back down at the message, which was less of a message and more of a photograph that he could only assume with Harry. And, _fuck_ , if he hadn’t been nervous before, then he definitely was after that picture, because Harry was—  
  
Well, Harry was the _out of this worl_ d kind of gorgeous with chocolate curls that reached his shoulders, big eyes, and a dimple that made Zayn’s knees weak. The picture was blurry, a little out of focus, but Zayn knew that was probably the alcohol, and it didn’t diminish how bloody _beautifu_ l he was.   
  
“Fuck,” Zayn muttered, running a hand over his face, because there was _no way_  the Harry he had been talking to for months was a bloody model or something—no way, no how. So Zayn did the only thing he knew how to do—actually, no, he did something else, because the first thing that came to his mind was to run, run far away from the pretty boy who liked _him_  of all people for some reason—he tried to play it off, act casual and aloof even when he was feeling anything but. Because casual and aloof kept it cool, it kept the pressure off of a situation, kept it from becoming something…more.  
  
  
  
_aha yaaaa like suuuuure that's u ;)_  
  
**it is!!!!**  
  
**zaynie i swear!!! ask me to do something and i'll do it! it's me! ): xx  
  
  
  
** And, fuck, Zayn could think of a million things he wanted to see Harry do, and none of them were appropriate and all of them included Harry’s face between his legs and his curls in Zayn’s hands and— No, no, _no_ , Zayn wasn’t going to go there. He just _wasn’t_  because that was just—that was crazy, right? Crazy how he knew he liked Harry, had known since a few days into talking to him where Zayn actually looked forward to talking to him to a few days before when Harry was adamant that Zayn would make a good boyfriend, even though Perrie had told him he was a shite one. Because there was something about, something about Harry that made second-guess himself in ways that were uncomfortable at first, putting himself out there, but something he really sort of…liked.   
  
  
  
_aha it's okay babe. ur secret is safe w me ;) x_  
  
**zaaaaaaayn it me!!! i'll prove it to u ok come to niall's partyyy**  
  
_next time aha m'gonna catch some sleep_  
  
_try not to take more creeper pics of hot guys okay? xx_  
  
**zaaaaaayn omfg it's ME i swear i'll send u more okay?? sleep well!! xxxxxxxx**

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
“His name is Harry Styles, and he is  _beautiful_ , Zayn,” Louis announced the next morning (afternoon) as he barged into Zayn’s flat, a beanie pulled down over his hair, eyes rimmed red, joggers tucked into his socks.  
  
“You look like an idiot,” Zayn said easily where he was leaning against the counter, nursing his third cup of coffee.  
  
“And _you_  look like…” he trailed off and sighed, shaking his head. “I’m too hungover for quick wit today, Zaynie—“  
  
“Don’t call me that—“  
  
“You let _Harry_  call you that,” Louis teased with a grin, shoving past Zayn and reaching for the coffee pot. “I don’t understand why you don’t drink tea.”  
  
Zayn shrugged. “To piss you off, mainly.”  
  
Louis sneered. “Cheers, mate,” he said, taking a sip of the coffee and wincing. “This is bloody awful. Anyway, let’s talk about Harry Styles—“  
  
“Let’s _not._ ”  
  
“But Zaynie,” Louis whined, dragging out his name, “he’s gorgeous! If you weren’t nursing a hard on the size of Jupiter for him, I might make a move myself.”  
  
“You have El,” Zayn pointed out. “And I’m _not_  nursing a hard on the size of Jupiter for him.”  
  
Louis’ eyes narrowed. “Hmm. Sure you aren’t. _Anyway,_  he’s gorgeous, Zayn. You have to meet him.”  
  
“I know he’s gorgeous,” Zayn grumbled.  
  
“How?” Louis snapped. “Did you sneak into the party last night without me knowing? M’sure Niall would’ve noticed; Niall notices everything.”  
  
Zayn shook his head and took another sip of his coffee.  
  
“Then—“ Louis cut himself off. “Gimme your mobile. That bastard sent you a selfie, didn’t he?”  
  
“If it’s actually him,” Zayn scoffed, nodding towards the opposite end of the counter where his mobile lay with a text from Harry including four monkey emojis covering their eyes and two crying faces with the words **toooo early need coffee**  attached.  
  
Louis picked up the mobile and thumbed it open, scrolling through the messages, his eyes widening. “Yup, that’s him,” he said easily, nodding. “Christ, even when he’s fucking obliterated, he’s gorgeous.”  
  
Zayn rolled his eyes.  
  
“You don’t think that’s him?” Louis asked.  
  
Zayn just shrugged.  
  
“You weren’t there, so you didn’t hear him waxing poetic about his _Zayn_  for like an hour last night,” Louis grumbled. “If you weren’t my best mate, it would’ve been bloody obnoxious. The kid is gone for you, Z. Thinks you’re his proper soul mate or summat.”  
  
“I don’t believe in soul mates, Lou,” Zayn whispered.  
  
Louis nodded slowly. “I know. But he does.”  
  
Zayn looked down at his feet, scuffing his socked toes against the grainy wood floor, and he shrugged again. “He’s beautiful, Lou. What do y’think he’s gonna want with me if we actually meet?”  
  
Louis just stared at him for a minute. “Listen, mate, I don’t know why you let Perrie twist your mind all about, but you know you’re bloody gorgeous, right? All cheekbones and jawline and eyelashes, proper model shit,” he pointed out.  
  
“Louis,” Zayn sighed, “it’s not— I mean, Perrie, like…she acted like that was all I had, you know? I was her arm candy, someone to look good with, yeah? I want—I want to be more than that. I want _him_  to think I’m more than that.”  
  
“He does,” Louis assured him. “I heard him last night, Z, he— You are more than that. I see it, so does he.”  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
  
Zayn was startled awake by the sound of his mobile ringing, some obnoxious Flo Rida song ( _Low_ , of course, courtesy of Louis, the obnoxious wanker) that was assigned to Harry’s contact information. With a grunt, he rubbed at his eyes and his cheek, the skin sore and red from where he had fallen asleep on his laptop and novels. Reaching for his mobile, he instantly felt more awake when he saw Harry’s name flashing across the screen. He allowed himself a brief moment of confusion before looking at the time, half-two in the morning, before answering his mobile.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
_”Zaynie! Oh, my God, it is you, right?”_  Harry giggled into the phone.  
  
Zayn felt himself smile and he rubbed a hand over my face. “Yeah, it’s me,” he told him, rolling over onto his back and stretching. “Vas happenin?”  
  
Harry giggled and the sound was muffled, which didn’t make sense, because Zayn would’ve thought Harry was at a party, even though it was Thursday night. _”God, you sound so sexy,”_  he mumbled, voice still muffled.  
  
“What are you doing?” Zayn asked, a hint of laughter in his voice.  
  
_”M’in bed,”_ Harry told him. _”M’drunk and wanted to sleep but wanted to hear your voice, too. Trying to do both.”_  
  
“You do know you can’t sleep and be conscious at the same time, right?”  
  
Harry laughed. _”M’gonna try. S’weird that I called you? Wanted to talk, and my vision’s all blurry because Niall kept feedin’ me shots all night. He’s a bad influence, that once.”_  
  
Zayn smiled, reaching over and closing his laptop, setting it on the floor with his books. “That’s what I’ve heard,” he said, kicking his blankets down towards the foot of the bed.  
  
_”Wanna know what I think?”_ Harry asked, his voice going all soft.  
  
“Yeah, babes,” Zayn told him, standing up and closing the window best he could. His room was still chilly, but he didn’t mind, and he kicked off his jeans before flipping off the light and climbing back under the sheets, pulling them up across his bare chest.  
  
_”Think it’s weird how much I’m into you when I don’t even know what you look like,”_ he admitted softly. _”Are you—“_  
  
“Hmm?” he prompted, licking at his lips.  
  
_”Are you ever gonna want to meet me?”_ Harry asked quietly, and Zayn could picture him curled up in bed, sheets pulled over his messy curls, and it made his heart hurt.  
  
“Yeah,” Zayn told him easily. “Yes.”  
  
_”Then come over,”_ Harry whined. _”M’cold and drunk, and I want you to be my big spoon.”_  
  
Zayn laughed softly. “It’s almost three, babes, and I’ve got class in the morning. M’sure you do, too.”  
  
_”Yeah, but I don’t plan on going,”_ Harry told him with a giggle. ” _Come over. I’ll send you my address and flat number.”_  
  
“Next time.”  
  
_”You always say next time,”_ he pouted. _”Will it actually happen next time?”_  
  
“Some time,” Zayn told him softly. “I promise. M’just…working through some personal stuff, babes. S’not about you, yeah? It’s not— It’s not your fault.”  
  
_”Kinda feels like it might be about me,”_ Harry admitted.  
  
Zayn swallowed. “I promise it isn’t,” he assured him. “You’re… Fuck, Hazza, you—you…make _sense_  to me, yeah? You just make me nervous.”  
  
_”I do? In a good way?”_  
  
He smiled, huffing out a puff of laughter. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You should get some sleep, babes.”  
  
_”You’ll be my big spoon next time?”_  
  
“Of course.”  
  
_”Good,”_ Harry said, and Zayn swore he could _feel_  his smile. _”Sleep well, babe.”_  
  
“Same to you,” Zayn whispered, waiting a solid thirty seconds after Harry disconnected the call before pulling his blanket up over his head. He buried himself against the pillow, trying to hide the smile that couldn’t leave his face no matter how hard he tried. And it was ridiculous, right? That one phone call could do that, especially since Zayn was the type of person who did _not_  like his sleep being disturbed, but— It was _Harry,_  so Zayn kind of let it go.  
  
(And if he drifted off to sleep after that with thoughts of Harry on his mind, well, no one had to know.)  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
**i think i made anaconda your text tone last night before i passed out (:**  
  
_aha! bc u know i love nicki minaj!_  
  
**maybe i already had it your text tone anyway ;) x**  
  
_it’s too early for ur flirting hazza need like four cups of coffee before i can keep up with u (:_    
  
**did you ever that that coffee shop I told you about??**  
  
_thinkin’ might be a bit too hipster for me ;)_  
  
**says mr broody mcbrood face**  
  
_wow hazza babes rly went outta ur way for that one aha_  
  
**go get ur boring coffee mr broody**  
  
  
  
Zayn laughed as he tossed his mobile back onto his bed and set about getting ready for the day. It was barely noon, but he wasn’t lying when he said he needed about four cups of coffee. Staying up until three am talking to Harry when he should’ve been finishing his paper might not have been the best idea he ever had. But still—he desperately needed coffee before he had to get to class. He shoved all of his books and laptop into his bag, noting that he should probably invest in a new one relatively soon, and he shrugged on his leather jacket, running his fingers through his hair. He probably looked a mess and didn’t give a shit; there was no one he needed to impress besides Harry and he highly doubted that he was actually ever going to see the lad in person, even though they went to the same school.  
  
Zayn groaned when he passed by Starbucks to see the line all the way out the door—there was no way he had the time (or patience) to wait in that line when he was already running late to class. So he kept on walking and he slowed down when he approached the little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop that Harry had told him about, _Espresso Yourself,_  and he didn’t even think twice before opening the door and stepping in, feeling his mobile vibrate in his pocket. He got in line before reaching for his mobile, thumbing the screen open and finding a message from Harry and a picture of a glass case full of sweets and a short message:  
  
  
  
**kinda want them all. what do you think?? xx**  
  
_aha get them! look rly good (:_  
  
  
  
Zayn exited out of the message and went to check his email when he heard it, a short Nicki Minaj verse that had his heart pounding, and he looked up instantly, eyes scanning the little café. He saw the glass case of sweets from the text message, though it must’ve been edited just a little bit, and he shook his head. He heard a quiet laugh a few people ahead of him, and he froze when he saw a head full of chocolate curls, and—no, no _way,_  it wasn’t possible, but—  
  
  
  
**maybe i’ll just sick with my coffee for now**  
  
_prob a good idea mate_  
  
  
  
Zayn swore softly under his breath when he heard the text tone again, and he knew it was Harry, it had to be—there was no other explanation. And when he heard the barista yell out Harry’s name and saw the man step forward, reaching for the steaming cup with a smile and a thank you on his lips, Zayn knew he was fucked. He watched Harry turn around and his breath caught in his throat because, fuck, it _was_  Harry, and he was gorgeous—all dark curls and green eyes and dimples and long, long legs. He was barely taller than Zayn, a gray Henley hidden beneath a black pea coat, and jeans so tight Zayn felt like he couldn’t breathe on Harry’s behalf.  
  
He knew he was staring, probably looked like a fish out of water or something, but he couldn’t help himself. Harry smiled at him politely, clearly not knowing who he was, and mouthed a quick “hello” before walking past him, shoulders brushing, and Zayn was in awe. He barely managed to return a small, shaky smile before Harry was out the door and the gentleman behind him cleared his throat, asking if he was going to keep the line moving.  
  
Somehow Zayn ordered his coffee without making a fool of himself, and he even made it to class on time. Granted, he didn’t remember a thing that his professor talked about—and not just because it was before eleven am on a Friday morning—but because he couldn’t get his mind off of Harry. Zayn barely made it out of class before he was pulling out his mobile and texting Louis.  
  
  
  
_code red bro meet @ mine and fuck off our last class yeah? x_  
  
**u got it bro! meet at urs in ten**  
  
_did u skip your morning class?_  
  
**obviously**  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
“Zayn! Open the door, it’s a code red!” Louis yelled, knocking on the door to Zayn’s flat as obnoxiously as he could.  
  
With a roll of his eyes, Zayn flung the door open and hid behind it as Louis came tumbling in, almost falling over if it wasn’t for the arm he stretched out to grab onto the wall. “Alright?” Zayn asked with a grin.  
  
Louis narrowed his eyes at Zayn before climbing over the arm of the couch and sinking down against the cushions. “What’s a code red?”  
  
Zayn stared at him for a minute in shock. “Louis!”  
  
“What? What the fuck is it?” he repeated.  
  
“I thought you knew?” Zayn questioned, shutting the door to his flat and sitting down on the floor in front of the couch.  
  
“I don’t,” Louis insisted. “I didn’t know if it was a bring wine code red or a bring weed code red… So I brought nothing.”  
  
“You were going along with it!”  
  
“Of _course_  I was, Zayn; you’re my best mate. Now what the fuck is a code red?”  
  
Zayn sighed, looking down at his fingers. “I saw Harry.”  
  
Louis nodded. “Yeah, he sent you that ridiculous selfie at the party, and you accused him of it not being him, I know.”  
  
“How did you know?”  
  
“I—“  
  
“Can you stop stealing my bloody mobile and reading our conversations?!” Zayn yelled, reaching up and slapping the side of Louis’ head.  
  
Louis winced and batted Zayn’s hand away. “You and I both know that’s never going to happen.”  
  
“I didn’t mean the bloody picture anyway,” Zayn mumbled.  
  
“Then what did you mean?”  Louis asked with narrowed eyes.  
  
“I…saw him at the coffee shop today,” he admitted.  
  
“Did you say hi?”  
  
“I—“  
  
“Did you talk to him? Zayn, tell me you talked to him—“  
  
“No,” he cut in quickly, shaking his head.  
  
“Zayn!”  
  
“I _couldn’t_ , Louis,” he groaned, running his hands over his face. “He’s even more gorgeous in person, did you know that?”  
  
“I did.”  
  
Zayn frowned. “Stop reminding me that you met him before I did.”  
  
“I won’t, because you haven’t met him yet,” Louis snapped.  
  
Zayn shook his head slowly, opening his mouth to reply when his mobile buzzed in his pocket. He settled for glaring at Louis before pulling his mobile out, thumbing it open to read Harry’s message.  
  
  
  
**zayn omg have u ever seen someone so gorgeous that it literally takes your breath away?? xx**  
  
_aha yeah once or twice babes (_ :  
  
  
  
“Ask him who he’s talking about,” Louis badgered, reading the message over Zayn’s shoulder. “Are you talking about him? You’re talking about him, aren’t you?”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
  
**  
this guy at the coffee shop today. he was perfect. like greek god status, face of an angel, only REAL because i SAW him**  
  
  
  
“Ask him what he looked like—“  
  
“Shut _up_ , Louis,” Zayn muttered, feeling his stomach sink a little, because of course Harry is constantly surrounded by beautiful people. It suddenly made him thankful that he Harry didn’t know what he looked like, because a part of him wasn’t sure if he could compare.  
  
  
  
**he had like the whole bad boy thing down, leather jacket and docs, and his eyes??? zayn**  
  
_aha sounds like u have a crush hazza ;)_  
  
  
  
“You’re an idiot, Zayn.”  
  
“I am not.”  
  
  
  
**no sir! he’s not you (: you’re the only one I’m crushing on xx**  
  
  
  
“Oh, God, kill me,” Louis groaned. “Tell him you were at the shop.”  
  
“Zayn—“  
  
“Tell him!” Louis demanded, ruffling Zayn’s hair.  
  
Zayn glared, batting Louis’ hand away, but did as instructed.  
  
  
  
_espresso yourself yeah?? I stopped by there today_  
  
  
  
“It doesn’t matter, Louis—“  
  
“Read his message, Zayn.”  
  
  
  
**YOU WERE? what time??? maybe I saw you???**  
  
_oh it was like half-eight? had an early class and all_  
  
  
  
“Liar.”  
  
“Shut up, Louis.”  
  
  
  
**oh ): i was hoping maybe you were there when i was… woulda been like fate, huh??**  
  
  
  
Zayn swallowed and looked up at Louis, biting at his lip. “Happy now?”  
  
  
  
**maybe we could meet there?? one day. i would really like that xx**  
  
_deffo babes xx_  
  
  
  
“Zayn, are you an idiot?” Louis asked quietly.  
  
Zayn frowned, shaking his head. “No, m’not, Louis. That title is reserved for you.”  
  
“What are you wearing?”  
  
“Clothes, Louis,” he snapped, rolling his eyes.  
  
“You mean, a leather jacket and Docs? Looking like the Bradford bad boy you are?” he asked.  
  
“I—“  
  
“Like the man Harry saw at the café with a leather jacket and Docs and eyelashes?”  
  
“Lots of people have leather jackets,” Zayn pointed out. “And everyone has eyelashes.”  
  
Louis sighed. “Zayn, you’re my best mate, yeah?”  
  
“Don’t get emotional on me, Louis—“  
  
“You’re being an idiot,” he said softly. “How much do you want to bet that the gorgeous guy he saw was you?”  
  
“It wasn’t,” Zayn insisted. “There’s— There’s no way.”  
  
“ _You_  said it was him.”  
  
“It was! That doesn’t mean anything.”  
  
“Zayn,” Louis told him with a small smile, “it means everything.”  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

* * *

 

  
  
  
“I don’t know why I let you drag me here,” Zayn yelled over top of the music, just to make sure Louis heard him.  
  
Louis wasn’t paying attention, just sent Zayn a shit-eating grin before reaching for Eleanor’s hand. “We’re going to find the alcohol. I suggest you do the same. And <i>try</i> to be social.”  
  
“I can be social,” he insisted.  
  
Louis rolled his eyes. “Find Niall—I’m sure you’ll have a good time with him.”  
  
“I hate you.”  
  
“Love you too, gorgeous,” Louis said, patting the side of Zayn’s face before ducking off into the crowd with El.  
  
But Zayn did as Louis suggested, because he almost always did, and made his way through the flat until he found Niall playing beer pong with a couple of his mates. Niall smiled and waved him over between rounds, patting Zayn on the back when he finally found Niall’s side. “Winning?”  
  
“Don’t I always?” Niall asked with a grin. “Gimme a mo and I’ll get you a drink, yeah?”  
  
“I can get my own, don’t—“  
  
“Please, you’re my guest!” Niall said, sinking the ball and laughing. “Alright, lads, m’out. You’ll have to take on the reigning champion another time.”  
  
Zayn ducked his head as Niall exchanged jibs with his mates, shuffling his feet until Niall reached for his elbow and nodded towards the kitchen, dragging him along.  
  
“Sorry, they can get a bit loud,” he told him with another laugh, reaching for a plastic cup. “Whiskey or vodka?”  
  
“Either,” Zayn shrugged.  
  
“So,” Niall announced, pouring Zayn a cup and turning around, handing it to him, “you know Harry.”  
  
Zayn swallowed, gingerly taking the cup from Niall’s hand. “Know is a loose term.”  
  
“You’ve been texting Harry,” he corrected, “and he’s arse over tit for ya, mate.”  
  
Zayn didn’t reply. He took a small sip of the drink, wincing slightly. “I feel like this is more whiskey than coke.”  
  
“The only way to make a Jack and coke,” Niall told him. “Now—back to Harry.”  
  
“Niall—“  
  
“I don’t know why you’re so shy or why you don’t want to meet him—“  
  
“I do,” Zayn insisted, cutting him off. “It’s just…” He sighed, shaing his head. “Harry’s amazing, Ni. He’s… He’s silly, and he makes me laugh, and he listens, yeah?”  
  
“All very Harry qualities,” Niall agreed, crossing his arms over his chest.  
  
“I want to meet him,” he repeated. “I just— I get caught up in my own head sometimes, yeah? Overthink, overanalyze, and the like. And it’s… He’s sort of incredible. And I’m…not? Like, what if he meets me and realizes I’m nothing special?”  
  
Niall just stared at him for a minute before shaking his head and laughing. “You think you’re nothing special? Mate, you’re bloody fit—“  
  
“Yeah, but is that all?” Zayn snapped. “Like, Christ, Ni, is that all there is to me? Because that’s all anyone ever bloody mentions,” he grumbled.  
  
Niall frowned. “What—“  
  
“I want to meet Harry. I’m just not ready, okay? And I need everyone to bloody respect that,” he told him, his tone going harsh, and he didn’t mean to get upset or rude with _Niall_  of all people, but he couldn’t help it. He was tired, tired of people trying to tell him how to act, or what to say, or when to meet someone. It was—It was too _much_.  
  
“Zayn, m’sorry—“  
  
“Just don’t get involved, yeah? S’really none of your business,” Zayn insisted, setting the drink down on the counter and walking out of the kitchen, back into the crowded and messy living room that had since filled with people, and Zayn felt stuck. He felt stuck and claustrophobic and he needed to get _out._  
  
And that was when he saw him.  
  
That was when he saw Harry on the other side of the room, talking with Louis and Eleanor with a big smile on his face, dimple the size of the fucking moon, and Zayn’s breath caught in his throat— _again_. And it was, of course, one of those moments where time stood still, and Zayn could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he had to get out.  
  
He had to get away from Harry and his bright smile and long, long legs. He had to get out before Louis saw him, or Harry saw him, or _anyone_  saw him. Because seeing Harry in person was so much more than Zayn was prepared for. He hadn’t been prepared to run into Harry, hadn’t been prepared for… He hadn’t been prepared for any of it. And part of him wondered then if he could go back in time, if he could go back and take it all back, never text Harry, or never text him _back,_  what he would’ve done.  
  
(He knew he would’ve still done it. He wouldn’t have changed a thing.)  
  
But seeing Harry surrounded by friends, by people who knew and obviously adored him, laughing at their jokes and blushing all pretty when someone complimented the hideous white and black striped trousers he was wearing— It was too _much_. Zayn didn’t need to see him, didn’t need to see how Harry could fit perfectly against him, how he might’ve been just a little bit taller than him, but Zayn could still see the two of them curled up in his bed, pulling the blanket over Harry’s shoulders to protect him from the inevitable chill from his bloody broken window. He could see himself pressing his lips to Harry’s shoulder, telling him to get some sleep, waking up next to him and reaching over his chest for his smokes. He could see pressing his lips to every inch of tattooed skin that he could find, and he had never wanted anything so desperately.  
  
So he ran.  
  
He ducked out of the party, slipping through the throngs of people until he stumbled out into the chilly night air, pulling his jacket tighter against his chest. His heart was still pounding in his ears by the time he reached his flat, locking the door, and hiding in his bedroom. His heart was still pounding when he heard his mobile vibrate against his nightstand, could almost tell that it was probably from Harry, and he ignored it.  
  
Because ignoring and running from his problems was the only thing Zayn had been doing since he had first started talking to Harry.  
  
(And he knew that had to _stop_.)  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
**  
  
**

 

* * *

 

  
  
  
  
Zayn ignored Harry’s texts for two days—a full forty-eight hours and then some, actually, because that’s just what he _did_. And because he didn’t know what to say. All Zayn wanted to do was re-read Harry’s messages and tell him how wrong he was, how fucking wrong, because it _wasn’t_  a prank at all. It got so bad, really, the desire to drop everything and obsess over Harry’s messages that Zayn resorted to turning his mobile off and hiding it in the drawer of his desk (that he never actually sat at) to resist temptation.  
  
(Which didn’t really help matters, really, because then he wasn’t answering Louis’ messages or Niall’s messages, which resulted in Louis coming to his flat and trying to break down the door when Zayn pretended he wasn’t home.)  
  
But—over two days, so. It was quite a feat, really. And Zayn congratulated himself on his self-control as he dug his mobile out of his desk, turning it on and climbing back into bed. He reasoned that it was Monday, the weekend was over, and he couldn’t avoid his problems forever (no matter how much he wanted to). He pulled the blanket over his legs, wishing he could hide away in his bed from the world forever, and his eyes widened as the screen kicked on and showed an alarming amount of messages.  
  
(He hoped they were from Harry but, well, realistically, he knew they were from Louis.)  
  
Zayn ignored Louis’ messages, could pretty much guess what they were going to say anyway, and he went straight for Harry’s. Because wallowing in self-pity was always the best course of action, honestly, Zayn knew that was a fact. And if he spent thirty minutes reading over Harry’s last few messages and hating himself for all of the ways he royally fucked up well, then so be it. But Zayn couldn’t help it, because he owed Harry an explanation or something—actually, he owed Harry a lot more than that, and that included at least ten apologies, but settled for sending just one, just in case Harry really wanted nothing to do with him.  
  
_i’m sorry…_  


 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
Tuesday morning, Zayn woke up and instantly reached for his mobile, thinking in vain that maybe Harry would’ve responded.  
  
He didn’t.  
  
And Zayn refused to let that bother him because, hell, he had waited two days to text Harry back after the party. So he really didn’t have any reason to believe that Harry would text him back instantly—Zayn didn’t deserve that, honestly. And going about his day normally, as normally as he could, was difficult, because Zayn found himself checking his mobile whenever he could. When he was getting dressed and fixing his hair, frowning because his hair just wasn’t _working_ , he was checking his mobile. Stuffing his books in his satchel, dreading going to class, and he was checking his mobile—it was the only thing on his mind.  
  
He suffered through one of his two Tuesday classes before he felt his mobile vibrate against his thigh as class ended. He bolted out of the chair, pulling it out of his pocket, and he knew he was grinning like a maniac when he saw Harry’s name across the screen. He sucked in a deep breath as he made his way out of the classroom and out of the building, only stopping to read it when he was secluded next to an alleyway between the art building and the literature building, one of his favorite places, and he finally let himself read the message.  
  
  
  
**I don’t hate you. I just want to be your friend. If you want me to be your friend.**  
  
  
  
Zayn’s smile disappeared and he frowned at his mobile because of course, of _course_  Harry would interpret his apology as a rejection when it was anything but. It was just— Zayn didn’t know how to articulate that, was never any good with words, really, and Harry… Harry didn’t deserve that, and Zayn knew it. Harry didn’t deserve someone who couldn’t even look him in the eye. He sighed and shoved his mobile back into his pocket with a frown, because he didn’t want to be Harry’s friend. They had been friends—well, if it could even be called _that_ —for months, and that wasn’t what he _wanted_.  
  
Because he knew Harry now. Harry wasn’t just some random numbers off a bloody loo stall door that Zayn texted when he was drunk and lonely. Now Harry had a face, and a heart, and a personality so bloody lovely that it was actually painful sometimes. It was different because now he _knew_  Harry, knew how lovely and charming he was, how heart-on-his-sleeve and hopeful and romantic Harry was, with their endless discussions about soul mates and fate and romance and everything that Zayn wanted to give Harry, but he didn’t know _how_.  
  
And, fuck, it was too much, and Zayn needed a coffee (or four) to get his mind off of it. And before he could stop himself, his feet were taking him to Espresso Yourself, for the obvious reasons, and he froze outside the door when he looked in through the window.  
  
Because Harry was _there_. He was texting away on his phone (but not any messages that Zayn should be expecting, he thought bitterly) with his textbooks open in front of him—law, Zayn distinctly remembered Harry whining about one night when he was freaking out over an exam that he aced like Zayn told him he would—and a half-eaten cupcake to his left.  
  
And as much as Harry had talked about soul mates and fate and Zayn had laughed it off, telling him he was too romantic and idealistic, Zayn couldn’t help but think that, fuck, maybe there was some sort of truth behind it. He sucked in a deep breath, stepping to the side when the door opened and a couple came walking out, lost in their own conversation, and Harry looked up at him then, catching his eye, and Zayn froze, swallowing. Harry smiled softly, the corner of his pretty pink lips tilting upwards, before he glanced back down at his book.  
  
And Zayn was blushing, could feel it stinging the tips of his ears, and he reached for the handle of the door, opening it and stepping inside. His heart was racing in his chest because this was it, this was his _chance_ , because he didn’t know if he was going to get another shot at all and— He had to do it; he _had_  to because there was no way he could lose Harry, could let him slip through his fingertips. And before Zayn knew it, he was standing in front of Harry’s table, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, and he was clearing his throat. And Harry looked up at him then, green eyes wide and gorgeous and breathtaking, and Zayn was an idiot, but he had to say _something_.  
  
“I don’t want to be your friend.”  
  
Harry frowned, the space between his eyebrows crinkling, and he licked his lips. “Oh,” he started, blinking rapidly as he stared up at Zayn curiously, “that’s…sad, yeah? Considering…we don’t know each other. I could be a very good friend, and you could be missing out on a great friendship,” he drew out, voice slow and warm like molasses and it was warming Zayn’s belly in a weird way.  
  
Zayn smiled softly, slowly, could feel the corners of his eyes crinkling in the way that Louis made fun of him for. “Harry, babes,” he said, sucking in a deep breath, and he knew his hands were shaking, knew his cheeks were flushed, but he was standing in front of _Harry_  and that was all that mattered. “I—“  
  
“Zayn,” Harry breathed, eyes going a little watery as he stood up slowly, pushing the chair away from his body, hitting the chair next to him, causing a man there to frown.  
  
“Ow, bloody hell, Harold, watch—“  
  
“Shut up,” Harry said, waving a hand towards the guy—his mate, obviously, whatever, Zayn thought a little bitterly.  
  
“Harry, I’m—“  
  
“Shut up,” Harry repeated with a little laugh, this time directed towards Zayn, and he was smiling, big and wide and so bright that it bloody _hurt_  and Zayn loved it—he loved it so much, he wanted to see it every day for the rest of his life, and if that was fate, then so be it. Harry reached out slowly, fingertips grazing the side of Zayn’s face, across the faint hint of stubble that he was too lazy to shave, and Zayn’s vision went a little blurry when Harry leaned in, his heart nearly stopping as Harry pressed their lips together in the middle of the crowded café.  
  
Zayn couldn’t stop him, didn’t want to, would never want to, really, and he reached for Harry’s waist, holding him in place, because how that he had Harry in his arms, he definitely wasn’t going to let him _go_. He was so caught up in the feeling of Harry in his arms and the sensation of their lips pressed together, that he honest-to-god whimpered wen Harry finally pulled back with bright cheeks and pink lips.  
  
“Hi,” Harry whispered against Zayn’s lips, breath coming out in short little puffs.  
  
“Hi,” Zayn echoed, hands shaking as he dug his fingers into Harry’s sides, unsure if he was trying to ground Harry or himself—probably a little bit of both.  
  
Harry laughed softly and it was probably the best thing Zayn had ever heard. “Hi.”  
  
“Yes, hi, hello, Harold, I’m right here. Did you forget about me?”  
  
Harry didn’t stop smiling but he rolled his eyes, barely turning his head to look at his friend. “Hard to forget about you, Grimmy,” he muttered.  
  
“Wait,” Zayn interrupted, looking over towards Harry’s mate. “You’re Grimmy?”  
  
“And you are Zayn. Most people call me Nick—“  
  
“Everyone calls you Grimmy,” Harry said, cutting him off with a laugh.  
  
Nick rolled his eyes. “I was speaking, Harold, interrupting is rude,” he told him, grinning towards Zayn. “And hello there, gorgeous.”  
  
Harry frowned.  
  
“I told you I didn’t know him, Harold,” Nick laughed. “I would remember a face like his.”  
  
Zayn flushed and he pursed his lips, and he subconsciously slid a hand around Harry’s waist, pulling him a little closer. “Thanks, mate, I guess.”  
  
“Stop flirting with him,” Harry insisted, narrowing his eyes towards Nick in a way that wasn’t intimidating in the slightest.  
  
“Think that might be impossible. Have you seen him?”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’ve _seen_  him. And I saw him first, so back off.”  
  
Zayn smiled, burying his face against Harry’s shoulder in an attempt to hide it.  
  
“Look, you’re making your boyfriend blush. How cute,” Nick cooed, reaching out to poke at Harry’s belly.  
  
“Stop it,” Harry pouted, slapping at Nick’s hand. “You’re going to scare him off.”  
  
“Not a chance,” Zayn piped up, looking up at Harry from under his eyelashes, causing him to flush. “Skip your last class, yeah?”  
  
Harry smiled as Zayn pressed his lips to his shoulder, against the thin fabric of his t-shirt that definitely wasn’t keeping him warm in the winter months. “It’s a very important class, Zayn,” Harry told him with a smile. “I shouldn’t miss.”  
  
“Then…come to mine after? Got a bit of apologizing to do, yeah?” Zayn said, swallowing, and his heart was pounding in his chest again with the way that Harry was looking at him so intently.  
  
“I don’t need apologies, Zayn,” Harry said quietly.  
  
“I want—“ Zayn shook his head. “You deserve an explanation, at the very least.”  
  
Harry nodded slowly, never breaking eye contact with Zayn, and he couldn’t stop smiling. “We can go to yours,” he agreed, turning back towards the table long enough to pack up his books, shoving them into his satchel and reaching for his jacket.  
  
“A new record, Harold, it’s only been five minutes and you’re already going home with him,” Nick teased.  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re not funny. No one thinks you’re funny.”  
  
“Everyone thinks I’m funny,” Nick corrected. “It’s what I’m known for, my comedy.”  
  
“No, you’re known for being a wanker,” Harry insisted, pulling on his jacket and tossing the strap of his bag over his shoulder. He turned away from Nick, not wanting to hear whatever response he had planned, and smiled at Zayn. “Yours?”  
  
Zayn nodded and held his hand out, trying to pretend like it wasn’t shaking, like his palms weren’t sweating, and he breathed a sigh of relief when Harry laced their fingers together, squeezing his palm. “Yeah, mine.”  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
Zayn could feel Harry’s eyes on his back as he fiddled with the window, opening it and shutting it again. He tried to latch it, even though he knew damn good and well that the latch was broken, and he could hear Harry laugh behind him.  
  
“Having trouble?”  
  
“S’broken,” Zayn muttered, shutting the window best he could and pulling the curtains over it. “It’s been broken since I moved in.”  
  
Harry giggled a little bit, climbing onto Zayn’s bed, crossing his legs and reaching for one of Zayn’s pillows. “Haven’t fixed it?” he asked, holding the pillow in his lap.  
  
“Haven’t wanted to,” he admitted, turning around and leaning against the windowsill, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes landed on Harry, curled up in the middle of his bed, and his heart ached. His heart ached at how perfectly he fit, not just on top of the sheets but in Zayn’s room, holding his pillow and smiling like he just fucking belonged there. It was— It did something funny to Zayn’s chest, something he wasn’t accustomed to, like he was full of…something and was about to burst, and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.  
  
“What is it?” Harry asked, teeth biting into his lower lip as he tried to fight his own smile and failed.  
  
“Just…” Zayn shook his head. “You’re here. I was— I was awful to you, and you’re here, and I’m _so_  sorry—“  
  
“Zayn—“  
  
“No, let me—“ Zayn cleared his throat. “Let me try to get this out, yeah? Got a lot of apologizing to do.”  
  
“And then more kissing,” Harry added with a grin.  
  
Zayn huffed out a laugh and reached up to rub at the back of his neck nervously. “I started talking to you because I was drunk and lonely,” he started, wincing when he saw Harry stop smiling and pout instead. “No, I—I mean, fuck, I’m not good with words, babe,” Zayn groaned, running his hands through his hair. “M’quite shit at them, honestly, no matter what my professors say. I— I just— I’m trying to tell you that I—“  
  
“Care…about me?” Harry offered, eyebrows high on his forehead, still chewing at his bottom lip. “I hope, I mean. Otherwise, I’ll feel really stupid for suggesting that—“  
  
“No, I do,” Zayn said quickly, sucking in a deep breath. “You make me nervous, Harry,” he admitted.  
  
Harry laughed. “I make you nervous?” he asked.  
  
Zayn nodded. “Yeah. My ex— She— She made me feel a lot of things,” he began, “and, uh, not all of them were good? Like… Things always start out great but, well, they rarely end great. I meant it when I said I couldn’t give her what she wanted. I— I cared for her, but I didn’t want to be with her anymore. And, uh, I don’t— I don’t think she ever really wanted to be with me, you know? She— She said a lot that we looked good together. And I never thought much of it but, like, that’s all I was to her.  
  
“And we never really…talked about, like, our lives, or what we wanted, where we wanted to go, what we wanted to accomplish,” he explained. “We just… Kind of existed, co-existed, I guess, in a way that wasn’t mutually beneficial anymore. I felt like I didn’t know her at all. I didn’t know her favorite song, or how she took her tea, or what kept her awake at night, like, what she thought about when she couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know anything about her.  
  
“And I know— I _feel_  like I know everything about you, from your first kiss to that really awkward threesome you had with Grimmy and—whatever her name was, I don’t care,” he said with a wave of his hand while Harry laughed. “Actually, I _do_  care, because I don’t want anyone touching you but, like— I don’t _care_  or—anyway, it doesn’t matter. I just— I _know_  you. I know what you sound like when you’re drunk and happy, when you’re sad, and how you must have awful insomnia because you would always text me at three in the morning—“  
  
“I don’t have awful insomnia,” Harry interrupted with a small smile and a shrug. “It was the only time you would text back right away. And I didn’t want to miss it,” he admitted.  
  
Zayn’s mouth fell open and he went to say something, but stopped himself. “I— You—“  
  
“Stayed up until ungodly hours, when I have to get up at five am to work at the bakery, just to talk to you?” Harry offered, nodding slowly. “I wasn’t drunk most of the time either. Just…wanted to talk to you, wanted to know everything about you.”  
  
Zayn swallowed, looking down at his hands.  
  
“Come sit with me,” Harry said while patting the mattress and looking up at Zayn with big green eyes. “Please?”  
  
He nodded and stepped towards his bed, sitting on the edge of it, and he stared towards the window, because he didn’t know if he could look Harry in the eye. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t want to meet you,” he whispered. “I always wanted to. I was just scared.”  
  
“Scared?”  
  
“You scare me, Harry,” Zayn laughed, turning to look at him.  
  
“I do?”  
  
“You terrify me.”  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Zayn woke up some hours later when Harry’s curls in his mouth and the taller boy wrapped up in his arms. His blanket was pulled up past his shoulders, tucked around Harry’s chin, and his heart ached in a good way. He felt himself smile and tightened his arm around Harry’s waist; he could feel his stomach rising and falling with his gentle breathing, and Zayn nosed at the back of Harry’s neck, wondering how in the hell he got so lucky to have someone like Harry, who forgave him for acting stupid even when Zayn couldn’t forgive himself. Someone like Harry who just made sense, who leveled Zayn out, who kept him awake most of the night but let him feeling well-rested and put together and…  
  
“Go back to sleep,” Harry muttered sleepily, shuffling under the blanket and reaching for Zayn’s hand.  
  
“How did—“  
  
“You think too loud,” Harry told him, peering over his shoulder with a smile. “Less thinking, more sleeping. And snuggling,” he added. “More of that.”  
  
Zayn smiled softly and nodded, tucking his face against Harry’s shoulder, pressing his lips against the smooth skin. He felt Harry shudder against him and he laughed softly, gentle puffs of air that had Harry shivering.  
  
“I said _sleep_ ,” he whispered, bowing his head forward just a little bit when he felt Zayn’s lips against his skin again.  
  
“I know,” Zayn told him, trailing his lips up the side of Harry’s neck and towards his ear, smiling when he felt Harry shiver again, when he felt his breathing speed up just a little. “Sleep well, babes.”  
  
Harry scoffed. “Cruel,” he pouted, wiggling his hips back towards Zayn when he felt him laugh against the side of his neck.  
  
Zayn’s breathing hitched at Harry’s sudden movement, and he released Harry’s hand, reaching for his hip to steady him. “Okay, babes, you win,” he said in a rush, because they were close, but they weren’t at _that level_  yet, no matter how much Zayn wanted them to be, and he wasn’t exactly a master at controlling himself.  
  
“I know,” Harry said with a laugh, turning over quickly to press his lips to Zayn’s in a rush. “Sleep well, Z,” he told him, rolling back over and pulling Zayn’s arm tighter around his waist.  
  
Zayn bit his lip and pressed up closer against Harry’s back, resting his forehead against his shoulder and breathing him in. He still wasn’t sure how they ended up under the covers in just their pants, blankets pulled tight around them, wasn’t exactly sure at what point in their conversation Harry decided clothes were useless and a nap was the perfect idea, but he didn’t care. Because Harry was nearly asleep in his arms, snuffling and sighing and trying to get as close to Zayn as he could, and he figured it was probably the closest he would ever get to heaven.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Zayn shivered as Harry ran his fingertips down his back and across the back of his thighs, hips angling upwards to brush against Zayn. He slid his hand down the side of Harry’s face, cupping his jaw as he licked into his mouth, groaning when Harry’s fingers dug into his thighs and pulled him down until their bodies were flush against one another.  
  
Harry hummed and he reached for Zayn’s hips, digging his fingers in. “You know what would be fun?” Harry asked, panting as Zayn’s lips trailed down the side of his neck.  
  
Zayn nipped at the soft skin of Harry’s neck before sitting back on his haunches, eyebrows high on his forehead. “More snogging?”  
  
Harry smiled, sitting up and pressing his lips to Zayn’s quickly. “That, too, but…” he trailed off, biting at his lip.  
  
Zayn rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “You know I’m going to say yes to whatever it is, so just ask, babes,” he murmured, running his knuckles across Harry’s cheekbone. His heart swelled as Harry’s cheeks flushed a pretty pink, and Harry turned his head to the side to press his lips to Zayn’s palm. “Well?”  
  
“Niall’s having a party Friday,” Harry started, reaching for Zayn’s hand and covering it with his own, linking their fingers together.  
  
“Mhmm,” Zayn prompted, kissing the back of Harry’s hand, brushing his lips across his knuckles.  
  
“And you already know Niall,” he added with a shrug, “so…I thought we could both go? As…boyfriends?”  
  
Zayn groaned and he hesitated for a moment, reaching for Harry’s waist and running his thumb over the small sliver of exposed skin between the bottom of Harry’s shirt and his skin-tight jeans. “You know I’m not one for parties, but—“  
  
“Please? I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” Harry insisted. “I’ll make you a special supper at mine? Please? It’ll be fun,” he promised.  
  
“Babes—“  
  
“Please?” Harry interrupted with his best pout, and it wasn’t like Zayn was going to say _no_  or anything.  
  
Zayn sighed, slipping his fingers underneath Harry’s shirt to rub across his stomach. “You really wanna go?”  
  
Harry leaned forward and nodded against the column of Zayn’s throat, pressing his lips against the olive skin. “Wanna show everyone how happy you make me,” he told him, pulling back just far enough to look up at Zayn from underneath his thick eyelashes. “Please?”  
  
Zayn pursed his lips, figuring if he was going to say yes no matter what, he might as well made Harry sweat about it just a little bit. “Hmm,” he mused, sliding his hand down the front of Harry’s jeans, where his dick was hard and pressing up against the zip, and he rubbed his hand along his length.  
  
“Zayn—“ Harry gasped, licking at his lips, leaning in to press their lips together, but Zayn stopped him.  
  
“I think,” Zayn started, pressing his palm against the center of Harry’s chest and slowly pushing him down towards the mattress, following the action up with a chaste kiss, “you should make lasagna.” He smiled as Harry nodded quickly, and he slid his hand back down the length of Harry’s torso, deftly opening the button of his jeans, pulling the zip down before sliding his hand into Harry’s pants, fingers wrapping around his thick cock. “I’ll go.”  
  
“Fuck,” he cursed, hips arching upwards, “I’ll make lasagna, I’ll make whatever you want, just don’t stop.”  
  
Zayn grinned, sliding his fingertip over the wet head of his prick, causing Harry’s hips to buck up again and another slew of curses to leave his pretty lips. “Wasn’t planning on it, babes.”  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Somewhere along the line, Zayn lost Harry at Niall’s party. And it wasn’t really a surprise and, honestly, Zayn had kind of been expecting it to happen a lot earlier, because Harry was a social butterfly, he knew everyone in the room, made it a point to say hello to everyone. And Zayn, he preferred to stay near the wall, drink in hand, watching everyone around him socialize; he liked to watch the way people reacted when Harry talked to them, the way he would give someone his undivided attention, it was disarming the way Harry could charm anyone, make them feel comfortable and at ease.  
  
Anyway— He lost Harry, and he wound up in Niall’s kitchen again, back against the counter, mobile in hand, as he played some shitty game that Harry had insisted that he download. He heard the door swing open and barely glanced up to see Niall stumble through and toss a few bottles into the trash.  
  
“Mate, m’getting’ absolutely tired of pickin’ up after slobs,” Niall announced, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the opposite counter.  
  
“Maybe you shouldn’t have parties every weekend, then,” Zayn offered with a lazy half-smile, the one that Harry said made him look like he could get away with murder—whatever, Harry said _a lot_  of things, and Zayn loved it.  
  
Niall shrugged, nodding. “Good point,” he told him with a grin, “but it’s too much fun.”  
  
Zayn nodded slowly, lifting a shoulder in a casual shrug.  
  
“Your boy’s out there charming everyone, as per usual,” Niall said, laughing when he saw Zayn’s cheeks pinken. “You know…”  
  
“Oh, God,” Zayn grumbled. “Nothing good ever starts out with that.” He locked his mobile and shoved it into his back pocket, crossing his arms over his chest. “Lay it on me.”  
  
Niall laughed, shaking his head. “Why do ya look like m’about to murder your pet?”  
  
“S’just the way my face looks,” Zayn said, brushing him off. “Get on with it, then.”  
  
“After that first party you came to—“  
  
“The only party I came to,” he corrected.  
  
Niall rolled his eyes. “Right, yeah, _that one_ ” he agreed amiably. “When Harry found out the next day that you’d been there, he was asking everyone about you. He talked about you all of the time. And I didn’t make the connection until that night, when Louis threatened my life if I told Harry anything, saying that you weren’t ready. And Louis is, uh, pretty intimidating sometimes.”  
  
Zayn barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’ve no idea, mate.”  
  
“Yeah, and he looked so hurt, thought you wanted nothing to do with him, thought he had done something wrong,” Niall said, waving a hand when he saw Zayn open his mouth to say something, effectively cutting him off. “And I knew that wasn’t the case, because you’re not a wanker, but you made my friend sad. So, I don’t know, just…don’t do it again, yeah?”  
  
“I won’t,” Zayn insisted, scratching the back of his neck. “I—I like him, Niall, I like him a lot. He’s brilliant. I won’t— I would never do that to him, not again.”  
  
“Good,” Niall said with a smile, “because I’m shite at the hurt-my-best-mate-and-you’ll-be-sleeping-with-the-fishes type speeches, yeah?”  
  
Zayn laughed. “It wasn’t that bad.”  
  
Niall rolled his eyes. “It was awful. Now go find your boy before he gets so drunk he starts telling everyone about the time he and I rode a mechanical bull,” he told him.  
  
“He— You—“ Zayn cut himself off quickly, lips pursed, and fuck—he was thinking about it when he knew he shouldn’t have been, because he definitely was _not_  in the right place to be thinking about the way Harry’s thighs would look, straddling and riding and—nope, not the right time, not the right place. “Right,” he said, shaking his head and walking towards the door of the kitchen. “I’ll just—“ he pointed towards the party, completely oblivious to the way Niall was laughing, and pushed his way through the door.  
  
And he found Harry instantly, and not just because he was the life of the party or because he was the only person in the vicinity wearing white and black striped trousers that looked absolutely ridiculous and incredibly attractive at the same time, tight across his thighs and making his legs look miles long, but because the minute Zayn walked through the door, Harry was yelling his name and stumbling off of the table he had been standing on.  
  
“There he is!” Harry beamed at Zayn as he threw his arms around Zayn’s neck, tugging him in for a kiss. “I was just telling everyone how much I wanted to kiss you,” he stage-whispered in Zayn’s ear, walking back towards the table and pulling Zayn with him. “C’mon, wanna introduce you—“  
  
“M’not getting on that table, babes,” Zayn told him with a smile. “And you shouldn’t either. You’ll fall and break something.”  
  
Harry pouted but didn’t resist, instead he wrapped an arm around Zayn’s waist and nodded. “Okay. Guys, this is Zayn!” Harry yelled, spinning the two of them around in a circle. “He’s my boyfriend.”  
  
Zayn shook his head, cheeks tinged pink as the partygoers laughed and looked them up and down. “You’re drunk,” he announced, wrapping an arm around Harry’s shoulder to help stabilize him.  
  
“Yes,” Harry agreed with another nod, “and you’re my boyfriend.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
Harry smiled so wide that Zayn’s cheeks hurt just looking at him, and he wrapped his other arm around Zayn’s waist, burying his face against the side of his neck. “Smell nice.”  
  
“How much have you had?”  
  
“Niall gave me shots,” Harry told him.  
  
Zayn rolled his eyes. “Should probably get you home, babes.”  
  
“Not yet! I haven’t told people about the time Niall and I rode a mechanical bull,” Harry pouted.  
  
“Not the time and place,” Zayn told him with an easy smile.  
  
“S’a good story,” Harry insisted. “It was a lot of fun. Niall will say it wasn’t, but it was.”  
  
“M’sure it was,” he agreed, swallowing thickly when he felt Harry’s hands slip under the back of his shirt to press against his lower back.  
  
“Zayn?”  
  
“Yes, babes?”  
  
“I liked it,” Harry told him, slowly pulling away from Zayn’s neck and blinking quickly, like he was trying to adjust to the sudden brightness. “Could always show you, yeah? Like…how much I liked it,” he said, tugging Zayn’s hips forward until he could feel the long, hard line of Harry’s cock pressed tight against the zip of his obscene trousers.  
  
Zayn swallowed, clearing his throat. “Should definitely get you home and put you to bed,” he decided.  
  
“Yes, you should,” Harry practically purred, pressing his lips sloppily against Zayn’s. “Bathroom first, though,” he decided, pulling away from Zayn quickly and reaching for his hands, pulling him along.  
  
Zayn couldn’t say no, couldn’t stop him, even if he _wanted_  to—and he didn’t. He let Harry tug him down and hall and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, and he was caught off guard when Harry pushed him back against the sink, pressing their lips together. Zayn dug his fingers into Harry’s side and let him lead the kiss for a minute before the younger boy pulled back, gasping for air.  
  
“Zayn,” Harry panted, pawing at the front of his jeans. “C’mon, wanna—“  
  
“You’re drunk, Harry—“  
  
“Wanna blow you, c’mon—“  
  
“You’re _drunk_ ,” Zayn repeated, wrapping his fingers around Harry’s wrists and stopping him. “Hardly appropriate for you to have a dick down your throat when you’re drunk, yeah?”  
  
Harry pouted as Zayn backed him up against the wall. “M’good, though,” he told him. “C’mon, wanna get my mouth on you so bad, yeah? Think about it all the time, think about making you come, what you taste like, want it so bad,” Harry rambled, drunk off lust and alcohol, and he barely noticed when Zayn unzipped his trousers and pushed them down his thighs until he felt the cold air against his hard cock. “Wha—“  
  
“Keep talking,” Zayn instructed, pressing his lips to Harry’s neck before sinking down to his knees. He heard Harry’s sharp intake of breath and he pressed his lips against his stomach, reaching for Harry’s thighs to steady him. He could hear Harry panting above him, and he ran his tongue across the head of Harry’s cock, feeling his thighs quiver beneath his fingers.  
  
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harry rambled, head falling back against the wall with a loud thump, not that it could be heard over the music in the living room, not that either of them would’ve cared in that moment anyway.  
  
“Go on,” he insisted, wrapping his fingers around Harry’s length and guiding the tip towards his mouth, tongue darting out across the wet head, smearing the precome around. He slowly sunk down, swallowing around him in a way that had Harry’s fingers clenching at his shoulders. Harry was a babbling mess above him, nails digging into Zayn’s shoulders and curses falling from his lips as Zayn brushed his knuckle past Harry’s perineum.  
  
“Fuck,” Harry whined, loud and needy, drawing the sound out as he blindly reached for Zayn’s wrist, trying to guide him closer to his hole. “C’mon, c’mon, want it, want it so bad,” he repeated, thighs falling open a little bit more.  
  
Zayn slowly pulled off of Harry’s cock, licking his lips and letting Harry guide his hand back further. He brushed his thumb across Harry’s hole, hot and dry, barely dipping his thumb in, and Harry whimpered. “Want my fingers, babes?” he asked, grinning as Harry nodded, rolling his hips.  
  
“Yeah,” Harry panted, nodding, letting out a moan when he felt Zayn slide his thumb in, dry and stretching and he needed it, needed more. “Zayn—“  
  
Zayn wrapped his fingers around Harry’s cock, squeezing, and he looked up at Harry from under his eyelashes. “Look at me,” he whispered.  
  
Harry swallowed and looked down at Zayn in time to see him run his tongue along the head of his prick; he dug his nails deeper into Zayn’s shoulder, gasping, and he couldn’t stop the words from spilling out of his mouth. “Want your mouth, fuck, Zayn, want it so bad—“  
  
“Turn around,” Zayn told him, licking his lips as Harry’s cheeks went pink then red as he turned around, resting his head against his forearms. Zayn hadn’t—he hadn’t done that in a while, sucking someone off, at least, but there were some things that just stuck with someone, muscle memory. But this—this he had never done, but he could see the way Harry’s thighs were shaking with want, and he wanted nothing more than to make his boy lose his mind with pleasure.  
  
He slowly ran his hands along the back of Harry’s thighs, pulling his hips back a little more, and he didn’t miss the way Harry’s hand shot out and reached for his cock. He didn’t have the heart to stop him; even though he wanted to make it last because, fuck, they were in Niall’s party, in his bathroom, and someone was bound to need it eventually. But Zayn didn’t really care, didn’t really see it as a priority when Harry was stood in front of him, half-naked and looking so beautiful that Zayn couldn’t focus on anything else.  
  
He slid his thumb between Harry’s cheeks, barely dipping against his hole, and he heard Harry gasp above him. He delicately spread his fingers across Harry’s cheeks, pulling them apart, and he leaned in, carefully brushing the tip of his tongue against his hole. Zayn hadn’t been expecting Harry’s reaction, a guttural moan being ripped from his lips, loud enough that anyone walking by would’ve heard and known instantly what they were up to. But— But that made it more exciting, really, and it had Zayn reaching down to cup himself through his jeans, squeezing just enough to relieve some of the pressure as he licked across Harry’s hole.  
  
Harry was practically writhing beneath him, thighs quivering and knees shaking, fisting at his cock as Zayn’s name slipped past his lips amongst a jumble of praise and thanks. Zayn laved at Harry’s rim, the tip of his tongue pushing inside, past the tight ring of muscle, and Harry whined, back arching delicately, beautifully. Zayn’s fingers tightened against Harry’s thigh when he pulled back, nipping gently at Harry’s rim, and he sat back on his heels, licking his lips.  
  
“Good, babe?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, so good, Zayn, fuck,” Harry panted, fisting at his cock. “Don’t—Don’t stop, fuck—“  
  
Zayn grinned before he leaned in again, sliding his tongue across his rim before sucking the sensitive skin into his mouth.  
  
“Yes, yes, yes, fuck, just like—just like that, Zayn, _fuck_ , m’gonna come, m’gonna come,” he breathed out, words slurring together as he fucked into his fist. His back arched and he practically keened as Zayn slid the flat of his tongue across his hole, and he came in thick spurts over his fist and stomach. Harry practically sunk against the wall, shaking, his heart racing in his chest.  
  
Zayn pulled away and ran the back of his hand across his mouth, and he stood up slowly, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist to steady him. “You good?” he whispered against the back of his neck.  
  
Harry nodded slowly, lazily, and he let Zayn turn him around until his back was pressed against the wall. “Let me— Let me get you off,” he murmured, reaching for Zayn’s hips.  
  
“M’good, babes,” Zayn promised, pushing Harry’s hand away and reaching for his trousers, pulling them up and over Harry’s hips, zipping and buttoning them. “Wanna get you home, yeah? Ready for bed?”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry told him, leaning in to press his lips to Zayn’s, tasting himself there and letting out a soft moan. “Thank you.”  
  
Zayn’s cheeks flushed at that, and he brushed his knuckles across Harry’s cheek. “Let’s go,” he said, lacing their hands together and opening the door to the restroom, stepping out to join the party again. And Zayn knew it was probably all in his head, knew there was no way every single person there heard them, but he caught the look of pride and irritation on Louis’ face and disgust on Niall’s and, well, people _heard_.  
  
“M’gonna be disinfecting that bathroom for years,” Niall grumbled, arms crossed against his chest.  
  
Harry giggled, hiding his face against Zayn’s neck. “Just the one wall,” he told him with a grin.  
  
Zayn shook his head, wrapping an arm around Harry’s waist. “You’re a bloody menace.”  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Zayn was observant, had always considered himself to be one of those people that noticed everything around him, understood how the world worked, and all that. He was always the first one to notice when his mum got a new haircut or a new piece of art that his baba would hang up in the living room, which is why it was comical that he didn’t even hear the timer going off in Harry’s kitchen.  
  
Granted, he was more than a little distracted since Harry was on his lap, panting and grinding against him, Zayn’s fingers slick and rubbing against his hole, and the timer was a faint sound in the distance. Zayn didn’t really want to focus on that when Harry was making such pretty noises above him, fingers tangled in Zayn’s hair. Harry keened as he shifted on Zayn’s lap, jeans pushed down around his thighs and restricting further movement, but he tried to get closer anyway, tried to get Zayn’s fingers closer to where he wanted them, whining when Zayn chuckled against the front of his throat, fingertips barely stretching his rim.  
  
“Zayn—“  
  
“Probably shouldn’t ignore the timer, babes,” Zayn whispered against his neck, teeth trailing over the sensitive skin.  
  
Harry shivered. “Hard to—to pay attention when you’re— _fuck_ —teasin’ me like that,” he panted, running his hands down the sides of Zayn’s face to capture his jaw, pulling him in for a kiss.  
  
“Should probably check on dinner,” Zayn told him with a smile, nipping at Harry’s bottom lip before he pulled away, reaching for Harry’s jeans and tugging them up his hips, his cock thick and hard, smearing across his stomach.  
  
“Zayn—“  
  
“And maybe, if you’re good,” he started, barely brushing his thumb across the sensitive head of his cock, “I’ll—“  
  
“Stop teasing me?” Harry huffed out with a pout, running his fingertips over Zayn’s lips where he was smiling.  
  
Zayn nodded. “Maybe.”  
  
“Fine,” Harry frowned, climbing off of Zayn’s lap slowly and taking a minute to catch his breath. “I wouldn’t want to burn your dinner anyway. I worked really hard on it.”  
  
Zayn laughed to himself softly as he watched Harry slowly walk into the kitchen, through the little swinging door. He reached down to adjust himself in his jeans, sucking in a deep breath himself, and he made himself stand up and walk into the kitchen to join Harry. He watched as Harry pulled the pan out of the oven, closing the door with his hip, and he set it down, removing the cover of foil. “Looks amazing, babes,” Zayn said quietly, leaning against the door.  
  
“Still needs to cool for a bit before we can even eat it,” Harry told him, turning off the oven and poking a bit at the lasagna.  
  
“’Bout how long?”  
  
Harry shrugged. “Maybe fifteen, twenty minute?” he offered, turning to look at Zayn with wide eyes, and he caught on quick. “Oh,” he drew out, nodding slowly. “Could definitely take a little bit longer to cool off,” he told him, hands reaching down to push his jeans and pants down his hips, and he smiled up at Zayn. “If you want.”  
  
Zayn smiled and reached out for Harry’s hip, pulling him closer before backing him up against the counter, crowding against him. He cupped Harry’s cheek in his hand, thumb brushing over his lips, and he leaned in to kiss him. “Oh, I want.”  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Zayn was learning quickly that he was awful at saying no to Harry, whether it was something small or minute like stopping for a quick cup of coffee before class (even when they were running late) or letting Harry pick out the movie they were going to watch before bed (which was, arguably, a much bigger deal), he couldn’t say no. Even if, three months later, Zayn still wasn’t particularly a fan of going out and going to Niall’s parties, even though he and Niall had become really good friends since he and Harry had gotten together. Zayn was just a homebody; he enjoyed being in his flat, smoking and reading, carding his fingers through Harry’s hair, all of it.  
  
But—Harry made it incredibly hard to say no to him, and Zayn was a sucker for those bright green eyes and pretty pink lips and dimple that Harry definitely used to his advantage.  
  
Which was why Zayn was at the bars, the clubs, the pubs, _whatever_  language Louis had used to try to get him out of his flat even though Harry was the only one actually able to achieve that goal. Zayn sunk back against the booth as Harry climbed in next to him, practically on his lap, curls matted to his forehead and a drink in hand, almost spilling over the rim.  
  
“Zayn!” Harry laughed against his neck, some of his drink spilling over the back of his hand. His necklaces clinked against one another, falling away from the fabric that Harry had hastily buttoned across his chest, and by hastily, Zayn meant, of course, barely at all—his black shirt was nearly completely unbuttoned, ink on display, and Zayn _loved_  it.  
  
Zayn reached for Harry’s wrist, steadying him so he didn’t spill the drink in Zayn’s lap ( _again_ , it had definitely happened before).  
  
“Oops,” Harry said with a smile, pulling back and sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. “Hi.”  
  
“Hi, babes,” Zayn greeted, telling himself to not stare at Harry’s lips, but failing, and he didn’t even notice Louis, Eleanor, and Niall climbing into the booth across from him. “Having fun?”  
  
Harry nodded. “Yeah,” he told him, taking a drink of whatever fruity concoction the bartender had mixed up for him, and he set the glass on the table. “We should dance.”  
  
Zayn shook his head slowly. “No can do, babes, m’not a good dancer.”  
  
“The video Danny and Ant showed me is proof that you’re lying,” Louis interrupted with a shark-like grin, and he ignored the way Eleanor elbowed him in the chest.  
  
“We don’t speak about that,” Zayn hissed, narrowing his eyes towards his best mate, and really—he was a _kid_  when they made that video, high and carefree and—it was in the _past_.  
  
Harry grinned, reaching for Zayn’s hand and trying to tug him out of the booth. “That’s not true. You can tell if a man is a good dancer by the way he fucks,” he said loudly, words a little slurred a little bit by the alcohol coursing through his veins, not enough to get him drunk, just loose-lipped and turned on and eager to touch his boyfriend.  
  
“Isn’t it the other way around?” Niall asked. “Like, a good dancer is proof that a guy is good in bed?”  
  
“But Zayn is good in bed,” Harry pointed out, “ergo, he has to be a good dancer, too, right?”  
  
Niall bit his lip, trying to hold back his laughter, and he failed, because Zayn’s cheeks were pink and Harry’s eyes were wide, like it was a perfectly normal conversation to have. “If you say so, mate.”  
  
“Think this might be an exception,” Zayn said quietly, clearing his throat and smiling up at Harry, who was still leaning overtop of him, half in his lap.  
  
Harry pouted and ran his fingertips up Zayn’s chest, over his collarbone, and around to the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. “Dance with me? Please?”  
  
Zayn groaned, sliding an arm around Harry’s waist, and he licked his lips. “You want to dance?”  
  
Harry nodded. “But I want to finish my drink first!” he declared.  
  
“I’m all for drinks. Shots anyone?” Niall asked. “On me!”  
  
“Oh, no, no, Irish,” Zayn said, shaking his head. “The last time I did shots with you—“  
  
“Was the night you texted Harry, wasn’t it?” Niall asked with a loud laugh. “Oh, lads, that was a crazy night. Was the night I met you, yeah?”  
  
Louis nodded, picking up his pint and tilting it towards Niall. “Best night of Zayn’s life, for sure. The best night of your life, Niall, came later, after we met, of course.”  
  
“Lads!” Niall agreed, clinking his pint glass with Louis’ before taking a drink.  
  
“That was the night you met?” Harry asked with a gasp. “Zayn! This is the club!”  
  
“Yes, it is,” Zayn agreed slowly. “And _best night of my life_  might be an exaggeration. No offense, Niall,” he added.  
  
Niall shrugged. “None taken. Your boy’s gotta take the helm on that one, yeah? He’s gotta be the best.”  
  
Harry grinned and climbed off of Zayn’s lap, stumbling out of the booth like a drunk Bambi, and reaching for Zayn’s hand. “He’s right,” he agreed. “Now c’mon, I wanna see!”  
  
“See what?” Zayn asked, letting Harry pull him out of the booth. He sent Louis and Niall a _what the fuck?_  look over his shoulder as Harry pulled him through the club, weaving his way through the dance floor and dancing bodies, before pushing open the door to the loo and pulling Zayn inside. “Harry—“  
  
“I wanna find it,” Harry insisted, using his free hand to push his curls out of his eyes. “Where is it?”  
  
“Where’s—“ Zayn cut himself off when he realized what Harry meant, and he pulled his boyfriend in for a slow kiss, backing him up against the loo stall door. “You’re absurd.”  
  
Harry smiled and nodded. “And you love it.”  
  
Zayn lifted a shoulder in a shrug, playing it off but, fuck, Harry was right—he _did_  love it.  
  
“Where is it?”  
  
“Over here,” Zayn said quietly, grabbing Harry’s waist and leading him down a ways, pointing out the crude scratching of his name and number against the loo stall door. He watched, waited for Harry’s reaction, which was anticlimactic to say the least, because Harry just smiled, and kissed Zayn’s cheek.  
  
“I used to hate it, you know? I would get, like, random texts and calls, and I never really knew why. Thought it was absurd,” Harry admitted, “and absolutely ridiculous. And then you texted me.”  
  
“Why did—“ Zayn hesitated, looking over at Harry. “Why did you text me back?”  
  
Harry shrugged. “No idea. Most of the time, I just ignored it. And when I got yours, it just… It felt like I should talk to you? And I didn’t think you would text me back, thought you might be embarrassed—“  
  
“I was,” Zayn agreed.  
  
Harry smiled, lifting a hand and sliding his fingertips across the carving. “M’glad you did, though,” he whispered, looking up at Zayn from under his eyelashes like he hung the fucking moon or something equally ridiculous.  
  
Zayn reached up and ran his knuckles across Harry’s cheekbone, over his lips, and then it hit him. “Wait,” he said softly, reaching into his pocket for the little pocketknife that his baba had given him, a family heirloom, something he actually used quite a bit. He whipped the blade out and went to work, scratching out Harry’s name and number, the crude message that made Zayn message him in the first place, as best as he could. The number was illegible, even if Harry’s name wasn’t, and he brushed away the leftover residue, sheathing the knife and shoving it back in his pocket. “There,” he declared.  
  
“Zayn—“  
  
“Now no one else gets you,” Zayn whispered, the words feeling heavy on his tongue, even though he had said similar things before, though they were usually whispered in the dark, against Harry’s curls, as they drifted off to sleep, so he could play it off in the morning.  
  
But Harry didn’t want to play it off, never had, never would, and he had never felt more in love with Zayn than he did at that moment. “You’re incredible,” he told him, leaning in to press their lips together.  
  
Zayn laughed against his lips, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist. “Yeah? You’re not so bad yourself.”  
  
Harry grinned, sliding his hands into the back pockets of Zayn’s jeans. “C’mon,” he muttered, sidestepping until his back came into contact with the swinging door, pulling Zayn into the stall with him. His fingers deftly locked the door, and he pressed his lips to Zayn’s scruffy jaw. “Let me remind you of what a wicked tongue I have, yeah?”


End file.
